


Courtship for Beginners

by fennecfawkes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Banter, Emotionally Repressed Phil, Getting Together, Insecure Clint, Jasper Sitwell Is the Office Gossip, Laundry, M/M, Pre-Canon, Recruitment, Unrepentant Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1823173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slight AU. Clint is an archery instructor. Phil is a high-ranking SHIELD agent. They may not have much in common, but they both have to pick up their laundry once in a while, and that's where our story starts. Not my characters, except for some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homemade Dumplings

“I think I’m in love,” Clint announces, tossing his heaping bag of freshly laundered clothing on the couch next to Natasha. She raises her eyebrows, and he shrugs, sheepish.

“You saw him, then.”

“Not just him. Phil. His name is Phil.”

Natasha shakes her head. “So you know his first name. That and the impeccable suit and the pretty blue eyes were enough for love?”

“I should’ve never told you about the eyes,” Clint says, going to the fridge and retrieving a bottle of Brooklyn Lager. “Want one?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

“We haven’t even had dinner yet. Pre-dinner beer? Really, Clint?”

“Have you met me?”

“That’s fair,” says Natasha. Clint opens his beer and walks back to the living room, flopping down onto the hideous wingback chair he only kept because 1) it was comfy and 2) Nat despised it.

“Anyway, no, that was enough for lust, but not the pure, sweet love I’m feeling now that I’ve seen him deliver dumplings and hold a child and call every member of the Su family by name.”

Natasha pauses, then asks, “Homemade dumplings?”

“Homemade dumplings.”

“So you’re in love with a man who owns a deep fryer.”

“They could’ve been steamed.”

“You know they weren’t. Did you ... talk to him?”

“Of course I didn’t talk to him, Nat,” says Clint. “I can be in love with him, but there’s no possible way he can be in love with me.” He tries to keep his tone light, but he knows his pathetic self-deprecation is coming through in a major way, which is why Nat sighs and shakes her head.

“You have a real job that doesn’t involve shooting people, only targets,” she says. “You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re easy to spend time with, and you’re a really good kisser.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” says Nat. “Do I have to keep going?”

“No.”

“Are you going to talk to him?”

“I mean, if I happen to be there on a Tuesday, and he happens to be there on a Tuesday, and I have an in of some kind, then—”

“Clint.”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’ll talk to him.”


	2. 37-Year-Olds Don't Get Crushes

“You saw him again, didn’t you?”

Phil looks up from his keyboard to see Sitwell darkening his door. He sighs and rubs at his temples. “How can you tell?”

“You have a pathetically dreamy look on your face,” Sitwell observes. “And you’ve got that bag full of laundry. And it took you a slightly different amount of time to get back to the office.”

“Are you paying that close of attention to my schedule?”

“I had to tell Fury where you were.”

“Fury doesn’t care if I miss a meeting when you and Hill and Woo are all there.”

“And I hate that you know that, because it means I’m the one he looks at second-most rather than third.”

“Someday,” says Phil, “you should learn not to be afraid of your boss.”

“You and Maria are the only two people here who aren’t afraid of him, Phil,” Sitwell says. “Did you talk to him?”

“I was a bit occupied. Had some dumplings for the Sus, and Jing had a desperate need to be held.”

“And how were his arms?”

“I should’ve never mentioned the arms,” Phil says, looking back down at his keyboard. “Look, don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like your own office? Or on a mission?”

“This is more fun,” Sitwell says with a shrug. “You should talk to him. You said he looks at you. And he has a bow. That’s an in right there. We need a good sniper.”

“Just because someone’s a recreational archer, that’s not necessarily an indication that they want to shoot bad guys on a professional level.”

“Just ask yourself one thing,” says Sitwell. “Would you keep going to that cleaner if you didn’t keep seeing him every week? I’d understand if they were still in your neighborhood, but they’re not.”

“Probably,” Phil says. “They don’t ask questions when there’s something off-kilter on my clothing, and they’re really lovely people.”

Sitwell rolls his eyes. “Who says that?”

“I say that when it’s true,” says Phil. “I will admit that Clint’s presence is an added bonus. But it’s a purely visual bonus. Nothing more.” After a beat, he adds, “He has a nice voice, too.”

“You know, I’ve never seen it before, but you’re pretty ridiculous when you’ve got a crush.”

“I’m 37. I don’t get crushes.”

“You do. And you have one.”

“Could you leave now?”

“Will you have drinks with Hill and me tonight?”

Phil sighs, which he finds himself doing a lot when he’s talking to Sitwell. “Fine. See you at 7.”


	3. That Was a Maybe

“Can I see your bow again?”

Clint laughs and waves off Xiu’s apology as he crouches down to Jing’s level. “You want to open the case?”

The girl (she’s 6-almost-7 now, Clint was informed last time he asked) nods eagerly and carefully clips open the latches. Just as carefully, she pushes the lid upward and peers at the bow. Clint tells himself he’d be doing this anyway, even if Phil hadn’t been smiling last time it happened—he’d been on the phone, but he still spared them a glance or two—because the Su family’s pretty great and as soon as she’s old enough, Jing desperately wants to attend one of his classes at Gotham Archery. Phil’s not even here. This is totally legit.

Then Phil walks in, and that couldn’t be less true anymore.

“Phil, look!” Jing goes to drag Phil by the hand to Clint, who’s removing his bow from its case. “Clint has a bow. It’s a recurve. He shows people how to use it. It’s his job.”

Clint looks up at Phil, who’s smiling down at him. “She’s not wrong,” he says, smiling back. “Do you want to hold it, Jing? Remember, you gotta be really careful.”

“Yes, you do,” Xiu says emphatically from behind the counter.

“I will be,” says Jing. Clint hands her the bow, and she gets into her approximation of proper stance. It’s not too far off from what Clint would show a new student to do, not really, and he congratulates Jing, who beams. She moves around a bit with the bow, Clint, Phil, and Xiu all watching closely, before Clint puts his hand on her shoulder and says, “I should probably put it back now, OK? I’ll make sure to bring in a compound bow next time. That’s different from this one. Looks a lot cooler.”

Jing nods and hands Clint his bow. He packs it away and moves toward the counter, where Xiu is heaving his too-full bag of laundry. “Are you helping Natasha with her clothes?” Xiu asks. “Not all of that looked like yours.”

Clint laughs. “Roommate privilege. And I owed her a favor.” Clint can feel Phil’s eyes on his back, despite Phil’s relative involvement in a lively conversation with Jing. “And no, before you ask, she hasn’t found herself a man to do her laundry for her.”

“Natasha is a good woman,” says Xiu. “She deserves a good man. She deserves someone like you.”

“Not my type,” Clint says easily, forcing himself to keep looking at Xiu and not over his shoulder at Phil. “And no, I haven’t found one, either.”

“I hope you do,” says Xiu, sounding sincere. “You owe me $25.”

“Don’t undercharge me, Xiu,” Clint says. “It’s $30 and you know it.”

“Fine, fine, $30.” Clint hands her his charge card—and that’s still a glorious feeling, though he should be over it by now, since he’s been living clean for over a year, but no matter, he still has money he earned without hurting anyone—and does his best to look over his shoulder surreptitiously at Phil, who’s playing Rock-Paper-Scissors (or, in her case, Rock-Paper-Scissors-Bomb) with Jing. Xiu hands him back his card and smiles warmly.

“When you come back, I want you to have a nice man, Clint,” she says.

“I’ll do what I can,” says Clint, saluting her, throwing his bag over his shoulder and heading toward the door. Phil steps toward the counter and Xiu tells him that one of his suits was particularly hard to clean this time. Jing tugs at Clint’s hand and puts hers in Rock-Paper-Scissors-Bomb formation.

“I’ll have to do this one-handed, which means I can’t use bomb,” he says in a mock-serious tone to Jing. “You have the advantage. You should use it.”

He hears Phil snort behind him.

“Best two out of three, OK?”

Jing nods. She goes straight for bomb, complete with dramatic explosion noises.

“I’m dead now,” Clint announces. “Guess it was best one out of one. I’ll be back next week, OK, Jing?”

“Bring the other bow!”

“I will.” Clint waves at Xiu and heads out the door. Within seconds, Phil has materialized next to him. Clint does his best not to startle when Phil says, “Jing loves you.”

Clint shrugs. “She’s a great kid with great parents. The Sus could double their prices and I’d still come here. I’m Clint, by the way. Clint Barton.” He puts his hand out. Phil shakes it. Clint forces himself not to look down at Phil’s slender, soft-to-the-touch fingers.

“Phil Coulson,” says Phil. “I kind of already knew your first name, though. What with all the ‘Clint’s bow’ and ‘Clint teaches people to use bows’ and ‘Clint, play games with me.’”

Clint smiles. “Yeah, she plays dirty, but I can’t really fault her for that.” Phil smiles back. Clint hopes his voice won’t waver, but that smile is a powerful weapon, engineered specifically to make Clint’s heart skip along at double time. “So you know what I do. What do you do?”

“Try guessing,” says Phil, and it’s all enigmatic, and Clint melts just a little bit more inside.

“I’d say high finance, judging by the suits, but you haul a mountain of laundry too easily for something so un-athletic,” says Clint. “You could be a doctor, probably a specialist and not a GP, but then the suits wouldn’t really be a thing, so ... government? Some kind of security detail?”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed,” Phil says. “And why is it that you want to know what I do?”

“Just keeping us on the same page here, Coulson,” says Clint.

“Coulson,” Phil repeats.

“Yeah. I like how it sounds.” Clint pauses before saying, “Also, I may or may not be working my way up to asking you to have dinner with me sometime.”

“If I have dinner with you, I might ask you to call me by my first name,” Phil says, smiling wryly, and his eyes are just so _blue_ and so _open_ and Clint feels like he’s falling hard and fast.

“So, was that a yes?”

Phil’s phone chirps insistently. “That was a maybe. Where would you be taking me?”

“Taking you?” Clint raises one eyebrow, a move he’s perfected with the help of many mirrors over the years. It seems to work on Phil, whose cheeks redden ever so slightly. “We’re splitting the bill. It’s the modern thing to do.”

Phil’s phone sounds off again. He sighs and rubs at his temples with his free hand as he pulls it out of his pocket. “Coulson.” Clint holds back a laugh at how official he sounds, and so suddenly. “Really? Right now?” Phil reaches into his other pocket and retrieves a card and a pen. With one hand (and how is that even possible?), he grasps it and scribbles out what Clint assumes is his name and number. Phil takes one of Clint’s hands and closes the card into Clint’s palm.

“One second, Nick,” Phil says. Putting his hand over the speaker, he looks at Clint. “Call me,” he says. “I’m pretty much slammed a lot of the time, but weekends are better.”

“Yes, sir,” says Clint with a grin, and Phil smiles back. Falling, melting, feeling ridiculous, Clint lifts his hand as if waving goodbye without actually moving— _real smooth, Barton_ —and turns and walks toward the subway. And if he allows himself to skip for a step or two, well, could anyone blame him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun geographical/neighborhood context!
> 
> Both Clint and Phil live in Brooklyn--Clint's in Bed-Stuy and Phil's in Park Slope, which are just about 40 minutes apart via subway. Clint's location is comic canonical; I just decided that Phil Coulson is a Park Slope kind of guy.
> 
> Clint works in Brooklyn Heights at Gotham Archery. It's a real place, but it's not completely open to the public--just work with me here.
> 
> The Su family's shop is in Brooklyn Heights as well, thus Clint's patronage. It relocated from Park Slope (roughly 20 minutes away) at some indeterminate point in the past, thus Phil's patronage.
> 
> SHIELD is headquartered in the Financial District in Manhattan, about half an hour away from Phil's place.


	4. Some Hot Piece at the Cleaners

“I don’t know if I like the way you’re smiling,” Fury says. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. Overnight detail in a shitty warehouse on Staten Island. Drug runners. Possible child endangerment involved.”

“I’m not smiling,” says Phil.

“No, but you’re trying not to. It’s that guy at the cleaners, isn’t it?”

“Did Sitwell tell you _everything_ when he told you why I missed that meeting last week?”

“Of course he did,” Fury says. “He’s terrified of me.” He grins.

“If you must know—”

“Oh, I must.”

“His name’s Clint Barton, and he’s an archer, and he’s good with children, and he has my number.”

“Clint Barton? The archer?”

“Yes, like I just said, he's an archer. Have you heard of him?”

“Heard the name thrown around, yeah,” says Fury. “Used to be a mercenary, one we wanted to recruit. Completely off the grid for a little over a year. Want to give him a job?”

“No, not really,” Phil says. “Work-life balance and all. When should I leave?”

“Apparently you really, really don’t want to talk about this.”

“I’d rather not, Nick.”

Fury nods. “Fine. Just think about it, OK? Or at least try to see him shoot.”

“Let me have dinner with him first,” says Phil. “Then we’ll see about his skills with a bow.”

Fury raises his eyebrows and Phil rolls his eyes, but he can’t help cracking a smile.

“You can leave now,” Fury says. “Good luck.”

It’s not as bad a job as Nick made it out to be. Sure, the runners are massive and menacing, but Phil’s on detail and only has to take down three of them when the junior agents on his squad start falling apart at the seams. There aren’t kids involved, thank God, and Phil’s back in his office by 8:30 in the morning. Hill’s there waiting for him.

“Fury said you can go home if you want,” she says. “Sitwell will cover your meetings. Hey, speaking of, what’s this Jasper’s saying about you having a crush on some hot piece at the cleaners?”

“That is the most ridiculous series of words I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth,” says Phil. “Did he tell everyone that?”

“You know, Phil, it’s completely permissible to experience an emotion once in a while.”

“I feel things,” he grumbles. “I just don’t usually talk about it. For obvious reasons.”

“Are you going to make a move?”

“Are you hearing the words that are coming out of your mouth?” Phil gives his office a once-over before closing the door behind them and heading toward the nearest exit. “And I already did.”

“You didn’t tell Jasper that!”

“Of course I didn’t. I don’t want him to keep talking about this, no matter how funny you all seem to think it is.”

“Is it actually bothering you?” Hill turns and studies him. “Because I’ll stop, but I can’t guarantee Jasper will.”

Phil sighs. “Maria, it—yeah, it bothers me, but that’s just because I’m not used to being involved with office gossip, however tangentially.”

“You mean, aside from the rumors that you’re a robot or an alien or some kind of genetically engineered super soldier?”

“Right, aside from those,” he says. “And it’s not that I’m mad. It’s just weird, that’s all. And nothing’s even happened yet. He only has my number.”

“You did that thing where you stay on the phone and write at the same time, didn’t you?”

“Think that impressed him?”

She smiles. “I’m sure it did. So, we can talk about this?”

“Yeah, I guess I should talk to someone about it, right? That’s healthy or something?”

“You really don’t get the whole emotions thing, do you?”

“They’re not my strong suit, no,” says Phil.

“At any rate, I’d be honored to debrief on your love life once in a while,” Hill says, opening the door to her office. “This is where I leave you.”

“Thanks for making Sitwell do my dirty work.”

“Anytime.”

Phil makes his way out of the building and, without thinking, hails a cab. His commute’s not awful, but something about going the wrong way on the subway during the morning rush sounds truly terrible. As soon as he makes it to his place, he draws the shades, puts on sweats and a t-shirt, pours himself a glass of milk (because sometimes it’s OK to be a child, at least with your taste buds, Phil believes), flops down onto the couch—a ludicrously comfy West Elm find from a few years back—and turns on an episode of _The Bachelorette_. He’s a bit backlogged.

Three and a half episodes later, Phil wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing. He looks at the caller ID and can’t identify the number. Shrugging to himself, he answers anyway.

“Coulson.”

There’s rich laughter on the other end of the call. “Do you really always answer the phone like that? Not that it doesn’t sound very cool and official.”

Phil smiles and sinks back into the couch, as he’d been when his unintentional nap began. “Now that I know your number, I’ll be sure to just say my first name instead. Isn’t there some kind of protocol about calling someone so soon after they’ve given you their number?”

“Yeah, that’s what Nat said,” says Clint. “But I didn’t figure you’d answer, anyway. I had a message prepared and everything.”

“What was it going to say?”

“It was going to start with an apology for calling so soon.”

Phil laughs. “No apology necessary. And you’re right, normally, I wouldn’t answer the phone during the day like this. But I’m home from work right now.”

“I could kind of tell. I mean, from Trista talking in the background.”

“You watch _The Bachelorette_?”

“It’s never my idea,” Clint says. “Well, at least, it wasn’t at first. But whenever Nat has a bad day, she turns to reality TV. And she doesn’t mind if I make fun of it, as long as I’ll sit with her.”

“Sounds like she isn’t just your roommate,” says Phil, trying not to be jealous of 1) someone that close to Clint or 2) someone who serves as a reality TV viewing companion.

“We’ve been friends for years,” Clint says. “More of a sister by this point, really. Better sibling than genetics gave me for sure.” He pauses. “Sorry, that was heavier than I meant it to be.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that, either,” says Phil. “I can do heavy. As evidenced by my impeccable taste in television.”

Clint laughs. It’s rough and real and kind of beautiful, though Phil feels like a pathetic sap thinking that way. “So, unexpected day off?”

“Unexpected day off,” Phil confirms.

“Does that mean you’re free tonight?”

“Yes.”

“You’re really drawing this out of me, aren’t you?”

“What can I say? I want to make you work for it.”

“Kinky.”

“No, just demanding.” Phil pauses. “Which I suppose could be taken as such. Did you have something you wanted to ask me?”

Clint sighs, as theatrical as a single sigh can be. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

“I’d like that,” says Phil. “Especially if I don’t have to decide where we’re going. I’ve already made enough decisions in the past 24 hours.”

“How far are you from Bed-Stuy?”

“A little over a half an hour, if the subway’s on my side.”

“Do you mind spending a little over half an hour to get some mind-blowing pizza? I’ll be there, too. But the pizza’s the important part.”

“Not at all.” Phil smiles, thinking that no, the pizza is most definitely not the important part. “When and where?”

“Broadway Pizzeria. It’s basically at Broadway and Kosciusko. Call me if you need help getting there once you’re in the neighborhood. And you sound pretty tired, so let’s say... 7? Is 7 good?”

“That works. Do I really sound that tired?”

“Phil, you sound exhausted,” says Clint, and Phil can hear the smile in his tone of voice. “So I’ll see you tonight?”

“Looking forward to it. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Phil hangs up before he can say anything even goopier than he already has. He looks at his watch. It’s not quite noon. He sets his alarm for 5. With his luck, he’ll be too keyed up to nap now. That’s his last thought before nodding off to the sweet sound of Trista turning down another poor soul.


	5. Professional Interest and Party Tricks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the positive feedback! I am making heart eyes at each and every one of you.

He realizes he doesn’t seem the type, but Clint’s always early. The hostess smiles at him when he enters the restaurant around 6:45 and puts up two fingers. Before she can seat him, though, he spots Phil at a booth, looking at the open menu in front of him.

“Never mind, I’m with him,” Clint says to the hostess, whose smile grows wider. Some people like earnest gay dudes, he supposes. He sits down opposite Phil. “Hey. You’re not wearing a suit.”

Phil—who is, indeed, not wearing a suit, just a plain black t-shirt and dark blue jeans—looks up. He’s smiling slightly. “I don’t always wear suits. You just happen to see me when I am. You look really good.”

Clint looks down at his snug grey thermal and khakis, holding back a grin and maybe—a squeal? Is that what he wanted to do, squeal? Where did that come from? “Thanks. So do you. I wasn’t, you know, critiquing you for not wearing a blazer and matching pants. Though your ties, they’re always nice.”

“I’ll remember that in the future,” says Phil. “Assuming there is one.”

“Is that a threat, Coulson? Sorry. Phil. I meant Phil.”

“Not a threat, just a warning that this pizza better actually blow my mind.”

“If it doesn’t, then I will,” Clint says with a wink. There. That’s more like it. Classic Barton. _I’m pathetic_ , he thinks to himself as Phil laughs, not unkindly. “What do you like? Pizza-wise, I mean.”

The conversation flows easily, and Clint finds himself collecting facts about Phil. He likes cats, but he'd rather own a dog, and he doesn’t have either right now. He could not care less about keeping a healthy diet, given his penchant for what he refers to as “garbage food.” He works out at a no-frills gym four times a week and goes running in Prospect Park on the weekends. He has one sister. He’s from Illinois. And when he smiles, the way the lines surrounding his eyes crinkle is absolutely perfect.

Phil isn’t too eager to talk about what he does—“A lot of that’s kind of classified, ridiculous as it sounds,” he says—but he tells Clint about his coworkers, their too-active interest in his personal life, and their love for bottom-shelf liquor and drunk karaoke.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” says Phil, indicating his Diet Coke. “I don’t much like what it does to me. But I love what it does to them when they’re on a stage at a dive bar.”

Clint breathes an inward sigh of relief. “I don’t really drink, either,” he says. “It’s usually one and done for me. My dad ... yeah, I’m about to do that thing where I make the conversation heavy, so I’m just going to stop myself right there.”

“It’s OK if you want to talk about it, or if you don’t,” Phil says, reaching across the table and covering Clint’s hand with his. For such an innocent touch, it feels incredibly intimate. Clint couldn’t mind less. “If you didn’t already figure this out, I kind of like you. And I know there’s more to like than I already know.”

“Me too,” says Clint. “About you, I mean. Sorry. Not so good with words all the time.”

“I think you’re doing just fine.” Somehow, the way he says it, Phil doesn’t sound condescending at all, just complimentary, and Clint’s heart stutters slightly when Phil squeezes his hand.

“Is that OK?” Phil asks.

“It’s definitely OK.” Clint smiles at Phil, who takes the check from the waiter’s proffered hand. “Oh, no, no, no, you don’t. We’re splitting this, remember?”

Phil shakes his head. “We’re going to your place after this, and you’re playing host there, so you might as well accept this meal while you can.”

“If anyone was supposed to be taking anyone else out here, it was supposed to be me treating you,” says Clint, though he’s accepted defeat. Or victory. Or both. Whatever. Wait. What? “My place?”

“Wondered when you’d pick up on that,” says Phil, smiling wryly. “Not for what you’re thinking, though. I want to see how you shoot.”

“Usually I do that at, you know, a range. Or a gym.”

“Usually, I’m sure you do. But I bet you have a setup at your place.”

“Well, not _at_ my place, strictly speaking. More like _on_ my place.”

The waiter comes back for the check. Phil cocks his head to the side and looks at Clint. “What floor do you live on?”

“One with roof access,” Clint says.

“Is this going to involve climbing a ladder?”

“You work out more often than I do. I really don’t think you’re going to have a problem getting up there.”

Naturally, he doesn’t, and soon enough, the two of them are on the roof of Clint’s building, where his landlord inexplicably allows him to keep a few targets for occasional practice. They’re now well into the part of the night Clint hadn’t anticipated—ice cream on the way home, Phil meeting Natasha and not being terrified of her (at least, not visibly), and now, him showing off for Phil with his oldest, most beloved bow.

“Does she have a name?” Phil asks.

“Well, I’ve had her for, shit, 15 years? So yes, at one point, she had a name,” says Clint. “But it wasn’t a very good one.”

“Oh, come on, now I have to know.”

“I got her when I was in the circus.”

“That’s the second time tonight you’ve very casually mentioned your former involvement with a traveling circus,” Phil says. “Just so you know.”

“I’ll tell you more about it sometime,” says Clint. “Anyway, that was around the time _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ came out, so I named her Jessica, as in Jessica Rabbit.”

“You said it wasn’t a good name,” Phil says. “That’s an excellent name.”

“It is?”

Phil nods. “Now, come on, show me what you can do.”

“Why do you want to see me shoot so badly?” Clint asks, genuinely curious.

“Partially professional interest,” says Phil. “Mostly, I just really like your arms.”

“We’ll have to talk more about both the things you just said—the confusing one and the one that makes me think dirty things—later,” Clint says, readying himself to shoot. “Your government job need a lot of guys who can shoot arrows straight?”

“You’d be surprised what the government needs,” says Phil dryly. Then he says nothing, because Clint, trying his hardest to make it look effortless, draws back, releases, and hits the middle target’s bullseye with his first shot.

“Cool party trick, right?” Clint asks, turning toward Phil. Phil just looks at him for a solid ten seconds before stepping forward, cupping Clint’s face in his hands, and kissing him. It’s short and sudden and kind of rough, not that Clint minds. He could do with rougher, if he’s honest. But this is a fantastic start. His bow falls to the roof with a clatter. _Sorry, Jessica_.

Phil slowly takes his hands away from Clint’s face, letting his fingertips linger along Clint’s jawline. “That was also OK, right?”

“That was so beyond OK I’m not even sure what it was,” says Clint, not bothering to hold back his grin. “Want to do it again? Maybe on my couch this time?”

“I could be persuaded,” Phil says, pulling Clint by the hand toward the ladder. "And don’t forget Jessica.”


	6. Five More Minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was weirdly hard to write. I hope it's not terrible. The next chapter will involve drunken karaoke and Fury being Fury, though!

“Hey, Nat?”

“Already there,” says Natasha. She stands and walks into one of the bedrooms, closing the door behind her.

“Do you have some sort of code worked out?” Phil asks Clint.

“It’s not code so much as ‘Please hide in your room and wear headphones while I make out with this person,’” says Clint, pushing Phil down onto the couch before arranging himself carefully over Phil’s lap, knees balanced on either side of Phil’s thighs. “She does it way more often than I do.” Clint chuckles, sounding nervous. “And I’m sure that makes me sound really appealing, huh?”

“You should never doubt your appeal,” Phil says, lacing his fingers at the back of Clint’s neck and pulling his head down for a kiss. Which turns into two kisses. Three. Four, and then Clint’s dropping his head to Phil’s neck, nipping softly. Phil shudders and says, “You don’t have to be so careful.” Clint pulls away and grins at Phil before launching the best kind of assault, the kind with teeth and tongue and lips on Phil’s jaw and throat and, after tugging Phil’s shirt down ever so slightly, collarbones.

“You’re doing all the work,” Phil says when he has a chance to catch his breath. He moves his hands to the small of Clint’s back, and Clint leans in to nuzzle Phil’s neck, reminding him, “You paid for dinner.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to get a bit spoiled, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Clint leans back and rests his hands on his knees. “Spoiled how?”

“Well, what do you like?”

Clint puts his hands on Phil’s shoulders and kisses him, long and lingering. Pulling away ever so slightly, he rests his forehead against Phil’s.

“I don’t think you heard me,” says Phil.

“I did,” Clint says. “I just ... I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me what I wanted before.”

“Then you deserve a lot better than what you’ve gotten, Clint.”

“That might take some convincing.”

“I’m more than happy to do that for you,” says Phil.

Clint laughs. “How are you even real?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Again with the needing convincing. It could take a while, Phil.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Phil says. He kisses Clint, keeping things soft, slow, gentle—as reassuring as he can be through these means. Phil hardly realizes that Clint’s maneuvering them around on the couch till he’s flat on his back with Clint on top of him, framing Phil’s face with his hands.

“I think I get to ask you if this is OK this time,” says Clint, smiling.

“I’m not sure anything could be more OK than this,” Phil says.

“No?” Clint shifts his position, and Phil feels a sudden pressure against his thigh. “You sure about that?”

“I changed my mind. You made things more OK.” Phil shifts upward slightly. Clint bites his lip, as if he’s stifling a groan, and Phil can’t really remember the last time he’s seen something hotter than that. So he shifts upward again and finds himself worrying at Clint’s lower lip, and now Clint can’t hold it back, and he’s making all these wonderful noises that Phil can’t quite believe he has any part of. But he stops himself after several long minutes, and Clint whimpers when Phil pulls way and pushes at his shoulders so he’ll sit up. Phil sits up, too, and Clint sits back on his knees again, just over Phil’s.

“Did I do something wrong?” Clint asks, and Phil can’t work fast enough to get that slightly wounded look off his face.

“No, you definitely didn’t do anything wrong,” says Phil. “I just... OK, look, I’m 37.”

“I’d guessed 33.”

“You flatter me.” Phil pauses. “Wait, how old are you?”

“29.”

“Oh, God.”

“It’s not _that_ much younger than you are,” says Clint.

“You’re not even 30 yet!”

“But I will be in two months.”

“I’m so old,” Phil says, surprising himself with how whiny he sounds. Clint laughs and pulls one of Phil’s hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“You’re just right, OK?” Clint kisses his hand again before holding it in both of his. “I’d rather you be 37 than any other age. 37’s my favorite number.”

“Really?”

“It wasn’t before,” says Clint. “But it is now.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Anyway. As we’ve established, I’m 37. I’ve done this a few times before. And every time, I end up over-thinking the whole sex thing. I want to stop myself from doing that in the future, so let’s just get it out of the way and plan this out, OK?”

Clint snorts. “You mean, like, a schedule? Three dates means dry humping, five dates means hand jobs, that sort of thing?”

“OK, maybe ‘plan’ isn’t the right word for what I want to do,” says Phil, smiling sheepishly. “Look, I really like you. And I want to sleep with you. I just think it would be better if we put it off a bit longer and did the whole thing where we get to know each other before that. Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah, it’s alright, but only because I also really like you, and because I’m assuming we get to do this kind of thing again,” Clint says, gesturing at Phil’s neck. “Oh, I’m sorry if anyone calls you out on the marks on your neck.”

“Did you seriously—”

Clint laughs so loudly he’s practically barking. It’s ridiculously endearing, and Phil wishes it wouldn’t be weird to hug him. _Fuck it_ , he thinks, tugging his hand away from Clint so he can. Clint continues laughing, now into Phil’s shoulder.

“Of course I didn’t,” Clint says as soon as he catches his breath. “Your coworkers already have enough to gossip about.” He pulls away slightly to look at Phil. “When do I get to meet them?”

“You want to meet them?”

“Of course I do,” says Clint. “Hey, I’m supposed to be the insecure one here.”

Phil shakes his head. “Soon,” he says. “You’ll meet them soon. I should probably go now, though. I do have to work in the morning.”

“You can stay on the couch if you don’t feel like waiting for the train,” says Clint. “The G’s a fickle mistress.”

“Can I steal that? I think I’m going to steal that.”

“As long as you credit your boyfriend.” Clint pauses, then asks, “That’s what I am now, right?”

Phil holds Clint tighter. “Yeah. That’s exactly what you are. And I’m taking the C to the F anyway. I am wise to the ways of ghost trains and the tricks of the MTA’s trade.”

“You’re also a giant dork,” says Clint.

“Says the man with his own promotional poster framed in his living room.” Phil looks over Clint’s shoulder at what is clearly a souvenir from the circus. “The Amazing Hawkeye, huh?”

“World’s Greatest Marksman at the ripe old age of 14,” says Clint. “And that poster is not in any way my fault. Nat found it at a flea market upstate and last time I took it down, she poured out my last can of Vernor’s. You can’t even get Vernor’s here.” He rubs his face into Phil’s neck. “Why are you hugging me?”

“Because you’re cute,” says Phil.

“I guess that’s fair.”

“I really should go home.”

“You’re going to have to let go of me first.”

“Give me five more minutes.”

He takes ten, and as many more kisses, before he finds himself out on the sidewalk, grinning like an idiot and having a much harder time than usual getting to a subway station.


	7. Happy Monthaversary

“Happy monthaversary!” With a flourish, Clint pulls a cheap bouquet of sunflowers out from behind his back. Phil shakes his head and smiles.

“You know, when I passed that flower stand, I wondered who on earth among its clientele would pick sunflowers over roses, tulips—well, anything, really. And now I know.” Phil takes the flowers from Clint and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you. I’m going to get these in water. Monthaversary, is that a thing?”

“I haven’t been with anyone this long since I was a teenager,” says Clint, flopping down on Phil’s comfy-beyond-all-reason couch. “If you think it’s dumb, then you can pretend the flowers are just because I like you, and yay, you haven’t gotten sick of me.”

“I don’t think it’s dumb, and I certainly haven’t gotten sick of you,” Phil says, putting a beer stein half-full of water and completely full of sunflowers on the coffee table in front of the couch. He sits down next to Clint and kisses him, on the lips this time, soft and sweet and a lot chaster than their typical hello. “If you want, we can even pretend that what I have planned for tonight is your present.”

“Oh, yeah?” Clint looks over at Phil, who’s wearing his stupidly attractive glasses with the thick black frames. His dark grey t-shirt is tight, probably because Clint’s indicated that he likes the way one-size-down shirts stretch across Phil’s chest, and since Phil conceded that he likes how Clint’s arms are an imminent threat to any snug t-shirt, he’s worn one, too—purple, but not too purple. Clint resists the urge to run his hands over Phil’s chest and shoulders. Then he quits resisting, because Phil’s his boyfriend, and that’s just the kind of privilege he has.

“Yeah,” says Phil. He’s not quite grinning, but Clint knows he likes the attention. “You know how you’ve been bothering me since our second date about meeting my coworkers?”

“I get to meet your coworkers?”

Phil nods. “At a karaoke bar and everything.”

Clint jumps to his feet. “We should go, then.”

“Not immediately,” Phil says, laughing and pulling Clint back to the couch. “I thought we could order in and catch up with Trista.”

“You already ordered, didn’t you?”

“I can’t help that I know what you want on your pizza,” says Phil. “We established that an entire month ago.”

Phil’s buzzer sounds off. Clint just looks at him and shakes his head before walking to the door and letting the pizza guy upstairs. “There better be fresh mozzarella on this thing.”

“You know there will be, sweetheart,” Phil says dryly, and Clint’s laughing when he opens the door.

One pizza and one and a half _Bachelorettes_ later, Clint’s thoroughly distracted by Phil’s tongue. The man is an artist, really, and sometimes, Clint wonders if Phil is actually a secret agent, with Bond-level skills in sex. And espionage, too, he supposes, but mostly sex.

The subject of Phil’s employment is still a touchy one. Clint doesn’t mind much; he knows Phil works for one of the alphabet agencies, but not the FBI or the CIA. It’s something more secretive, which means he can’t say much more than “Sometimes I’ll be gone for a few days, but I’ll always come back, and there will always be mountains of paperwork waiting for me.” Though Phil hasn’t clarified his ranking, Clint can deduce that it’s pretty high, and that causes a swell of pride in Clint, even if he has no idea what that really means.

“Mmm, what time is it?” Phil asks Clint as they’re taking a breath. Phil’s balanced on his elbows over Clint, who’s not sure when his fly came undone, but that’s kind of how it works when he and Phil get going. Clint looks over Phil’s shoulder at the vintage Captain America clock on the wall (for which Phil has been mocked, but only playfully, because hey, there are worse things to be a fan of).

“8,” he says. “Well, 8:07, technically, and about 30 seconds. 31. 32.”

“Shit,” says Phil, standing up and smoothing down his shirt and jeans. “We’re going to be so late. Everyone’s meeting at 8:30.”

“Where?”

“Midtown.”

“Shit,” Clint says. “We can get there in half an hour if we take a cab.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely what we’re doing,” says Phil, already walking toward the door. “I don’t know if they’d ever let me forget it if we were 45 minutes late. More.”

“Will they let you forget this?”

“No. Probably not.”

“Well, lead on.”

Phil slips the cab driver a twenty as soon as they get in. The driver nods, and what follows is some of the most harrowing driving Clint has ever experienced. He’s a little dizzy when the cab screeches to a stop. Phil gives the driver a pretty hefty tip on top of that extra twenty (and that’s another question Clint has about Phil’s employment—how much does a secret agent make?) and pulls Clint by the hand into the bar.

“It’s not the best pub I’ve been to, not even in midtown,” says Phil. “But it is the only one we’ve found with free nightly karaoke.”

“I haven’t done karaoke...” Clint racks his brain. “Ever. I haven’t ever done karaoke.”

“Well, I won’t force you. But I can’t promise that for anyone else.”

“Phil!” a voice calls from across the room. Phil doesn’t let go of Clint’s hand as they make their way to the back of the bar. Phil sits down at the head of the table, and Clint sits next to him. There’s a friendly-looking guy at Clint’s left with a shaved head and an expression Clint can only describe as open. Probably not a secret agent, then. Maybe he’s an administrative assistant or something.

“I’m Jasper,” says the guy, extending his hand. Clint lets go of Phil’s hand to shake it.

“Clint,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Melinda,” the woman sitting opposite Clint says, and he shakes her hand, too, and then the hands of the two others at the table—Sharon, a pretty blonde with a wide smile, and Clay, a brown-haired man with broad shoulders, very secret agent-esque shoulders. Come to think of it, Melinda, who’s Asian and beautiful with a very strong grip and a severe expression whenever she’s not smiling, is probably an agent, too. Clint will have to ask later.

“Where’s Hill?” Phil asks.

“Last I heard, she was trying to convince Fury to stop by,” says Jasper. “She was planning on playing the ‘You’ll get to meet Phil’s boyfriend’ card, followed by the ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday’ card.”

“The first card is a stronger play than the second,” Melinda says. “Fury doesn’t care about weekends. Fury doesn’t grasp the concept of time off.”

“That’s accurate,” says Clay. “Can you flag down the waitress, May? I’m going to need another beer before any of you get to hear ‘Ring of Fire.’”

“What’s your karaoke jam, Clint?” Sharon asks as the waitress takes Clay’s and Melinda’s orders. Maybe Melinda shoots straight past agent into ninja territory.

“Don’t have one, not really,” says Clint. “Haven’t really done the karaoke thing.”

“He sings Bon Jovi in the shower,” Phil offers.

“Hey! If you’re allowed to have classified information, then I am, too. And that’s mine.” Clint looks around the table. Everyone’s laughing or at least trying not to. “That’s not true. I don’t do that.”

“He does,” says Phil. “Usually ‘Livin’ on a Prayer,’ sometimes ‘You Give Love a Bad Name.’ But I haven’t heard that one in a while.”

“Because Phil Coulson does no such thing,” Sharon says. Clint feels his cheeks redden, and is relieved to see Phil’s do the same. They haven’t used that word yet. Clint’s nearly blurted it out about six times, maybe more, and sometimes Phil gets this look on his face like he really, really wants to say something and then just kisses Clint instead. Clint’s not opposed to this. But “love,” that’d be a nice thing to hear sometime, someday.

“What are you going to do?” asks Clint. “That was a general ‘you.’”

“We should surprise you, I think,” Jasper says. “And we usually let Maria start us off, anyway. And speak of the devil.”

“Good morning, agents,” the woman who’s just arrived at the table drawls. “I’m two drinks in because Fury would only come if we did shots first.”

The frankly terrifying man standing behind her nods and grins. He’s not crazy built, but he’s tall and he’s wearing a floor-length black leather coat over all-black clothing, plus an honest-to-God eye patch. Clint looks at Phil, eyes wide, and Phil just smiles and shrugs.

“Clint, this is Maria Hill and Nick Fury,” he says. “Hill, Nick, this is my boyfriend, Clint Barton.”

“Oh, Phil, he’s _cute_ ,” Maria says. “You never said he was cute.”

“He didn’t have to say it,” says Sharon. “It’s been written all over his face every time he's talked about him.” Clint wonders if his blush will ever go away, and when Nick says, “He’s said you can shoot, though, and that’s cute enough for me,” he’s almost certain it won’t.

“Kindly refrain from ever calling my boyfriend cute again, Nick,” says Phil.

“How often do you talk about me?” Clint asks Phil, leaning closer to him, covering Phil’s knee with his hand.

“Apparently enough to be ridiculed for the rest of my life,” says Phil. “Is someone going to do some karaoke, or are we just going to keep doing whatever this is?”

“It’s fun, watching you be embarrassed,” Jasper says. “Very fish out of water.”

“I’ll put you out of your misery, Phil,” says Maria. “You and your cute boyfriend.” She claps Phil on the shoulder and walks over to the stage, where there’s already a small gathering of people waiting for their turn in the spotlight. When said gathering notices Maria, they nod, nearly in sync, and the crowd parts. Maria steps onto the stage and says to the DJ standing by, “Three-seven-seven-one.”

“You guys come here a lot, don’t you?” asks Clint.

Maria’s “Get the Party Started” is exactly what everyone in the bar seems to need. By the time the song ends, the line to sing is snaking through the room; Clay, Jasper, and Sharon are playing Bang, Marry, or Kill with Pink, Christina Aguilera, and Britney Spears; and Phil is rolling his eyes while Nick asks Clint about his history in marksmanship.

“I was really just a boy who worked at a circus before being a guy who made some shady decisions with a bow for money,” says Clint. “Now I’m an archery instructor for kids who like Robin Hood.”

“So the shady decisions are a thing of the past, then?” Nick studies him carefully. It’s unnerving, and Clint kind of hates it, along with the guy’s line of questioning.

“I’d like to think I’ve straightened up,” Clint says carefully. He feels Phil’s hand on his knee, squeezing lightly. “Got a solid job, a nice place I share with a great roommate, and pretty much the best boyfriend possible. Life’s not so bad.”

“If you ever want to make it better...” Nick slides a card across the table to Clint. He catches it under his thumb. “There’s a new career waiting for you.”

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of apologetic glances from Phil, drunken renditions of New Wave one-hit wonders, and Nick Fury’s expert side-eye. A little after 1 in the morning, Clint and Phil make their way to Phil’s bedroom, teeth freshly brushed and clad in the plaid flannel PJ bottoms Phil favors. Clint claims his side of the bed and Phil takes his, but in fewer than five seconds, Phil’s crossed the invisible line down the middle of the bed to pull Clint into his arms. He rests his forehead against Clint’s.

“I’m...” Phil sighs deeply. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what it should’ve been.”

“No, it was fun, mostly,” says Clint. “It’s not your fault your boss is kind of an asshole.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

“And I like your other friends. Melinda’s terrifying. Maria’s hilarious. And I can’t believe how nice they are, being secret agents and all.”

“Seeing as Nick’s offered you a job...” Phil breathes out heavily. “And I really didn’t want him to do that, Clint.”

“I could tell,” says Clint. “So let’s not talk about this anymore, because it wasn’t your fault, and at least some of your friends are great, and now I know where you work, because it’s written on a card that I very politely put in my wallet.”

“Anyway, Nick did, without realizing, give me permission to tell you what SHIELD is and what I do,” Phil says thoughtfully. “If you want to hear about it tomorrow, I’ve got a lot of stories.”

“I’m up for all of them,” says Clint, rubbing his nose against Phil’s. “Morning sex first, right?”

“You already know the answer to that question.”

“I do. But I want to hear it anyway. You owe me.”

“Of course there will be morning sex first, Clint.”

“See you then.” Clint kisses Phil, a lazy, lingering good night, and flips around so Phil’s spooned up against his back and things feel just about the way they should, even if Nick Fury is a dick and Clint still hasn’t heard Phil sing.


	8. A Less Charismatic Fox Mulder

“Wow.” Clint leans back against the couch and scratches his head.

“Yeah.” Phil doesn’t lean so much as droop against him, taking a sip from his cup of coffee and miraculously not dribbling any of it down his shirt. They’re both still in pairs of Phil’s pajama bottoms and crappy t-shirts from the back of his closet, the remnants of bacon and eggs on the plates they’ve left on the coffee table. Clint has his coffee in hand as well, but he seems too dumbfounded to take a sip.

“You actually literally are a secret agent,” he says. “That’s what you’re telling me. And there are ... there are robots, and people evolved beyond typical humanity, and there’s probably aliens, too?”

“I’m basically a less charismatic Fox Mulder,” says Phil.

“I don’t know if I’d say that,” Clint says. “Mulder was kind of a jerk a lot of the time. Well, not a jerk, but definitely a lot more self-important than you are. And I’d rather look at your face than his.”

“I don’t know if I should be quite so complimented as I am right now,” says Phil. “So, you believe me, then?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Far as I know, you’ve never been anything but perfectly honest with me. I mean, sure, you wouldn’t talk about the job, but I don’t talk about what I used to do, either.”

“Well, it’s not what you do anymore. It’s irrelevant.”

“And I guess your whole super-spy thing is relevant,” Clint says. “Is your job safe, Phil? Should I start worrying when you’re gone for a few days?”

“I take care of myself,” says Phil. “There are safer jobs, sure, but...” He hesitates. “The truth is, Clint, self-preservation, until recently, was never too high on my list of priorities. Generic safety and staying alive on missions, sure. But before you, if I broke something or got hurt in any way, after the mission wrapped, the only person it affected was me.” Phil looks up at Clint. “Now, I actually have someone to come back to. And not having you anymore...” He goes back to staring at his knees. “That’s a scary thought.”

Clint wraps his arm around Phil and draws him even closer, which Phil hadn’t thought possible, but now he can feel Clint’s heart beating. It’s going at a faster clip than it should be. He looks back up at Clint, concerned.

“Is everything alright?”

Clint nods. “It’s just...” He runs his free hand through his hair, leaving it messier than before. “Look. I’m not good at this kind of thing. But it’s been, like, 20-something days since I’ve wanted to say so, and I just want you to know I love you, OK? I love you, Phil. And the whole ‘secret agent’ thing, yeah, I’m going to worry a lot more now, but it’s made you even hotter, and I didn’t know anything could do that.”

Phil looks at him for a few seconds until Clint groans and says, “Fuck, just say something, OK? Tell me to leave or that I’m being ridiculous, just talk to me.”

“I’m never going to tell you to leave, and you’re certainly not being ridiculous.” Phil straightens up and pulls Clint’s hands into his. “I love you, too. Of course I do. It’s just hard to find the right time to say so. And I think you just did.”

“You love me?” Clint’s smiling, almost shy-looking.

“I do,” says Phil. “More than I really know what to do with.”

“I think you’re doing just fine with it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You really are.” Clint lets go of Phil’s hands in favor of putting his arms around Phil’s neck. He leans his chin on Phil’s shoulder. “And I know you’re thinking about quitting your job right now, because then you’d be safer, and I wouldn’t have to worry as much. But stop thinking that. You like your job. You’re good at your job. You should keep doing it unless you have a really good reason not to.”

“I don’t understand how you know me so well so quickly,” says Phil.

“I’m with you kind of a lot,” Clint says, drawing back slightly to smile at Phil and bump their foreheads together. “And if I were you, it’s probably what I’d be thinking, too.” He pauses before saying, “You know, if you ever did want to know about what I was like before we met, when I was maybe not so great at taking care of myself, I’d tell you.”

Phil sighs. “Remember that time I said I had a professional interest in how well you shoot? That’s because I literally did. Nick said he’d been wanting to recruit you for years, then you went off the grid—well, not off the grid so much as you weren’t out there being an incredible marksman anymore—and he lost sight of you.”

“I kind of want to be mad at you for not mentioning this sooner,” says Clint. “But it also doesn’t seem that important. So you knew who I was?”

“Nothing beyond you being a former sniper and what I’d learned from picking up my laundry the same day you picked up yours,” Phil says. “I wanted to pry, Clint. And I could’ve. SHIELD has resources I sometimes can’t even fathom. But I didn’t. So nope, you shouldn’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. It’s really hard to get mad at you.”

“Have you ever been?”

“You canceled our third date and that pissed me off at the time,” says Clint. “But I’m guessing there was an orphanage full of babies in danger of being killed by robotic spiders or something, so that was unreasonable of me. I’m sorry.”

Phil laughs. “I forgive you. What do you want to do today now that we’ve had a potentially earth-shattering but apparently not-that-big-of-a-deal conversation?”

Clint gets to his feet and pulls Phil up with him. “First, we’re showering, and we’re taking as long as we want to do that, because the next thing we absolutely have to do is go to my place and hang out with Natasha.”

“She wants me there, too?”

Clint rolls his eyes and tugs Phil in the direction of the bathroom. “Yes. She said, and I quote, ‘Bring Phil over Saturday with a bottle of something hard and a romantic comedy. I’ve had a shitty week.’”

“She knows I won’t be touching the bottle, right?” Phil asks. “I mean, carry it there, sure. But actually drink from it, not so much. Nick’s behavior drove me to drink not one, but two beers last night, and even that felt like overkill.”

Clint gasps theatrically. “Not two beers!”

“Yes, two.” Phil steps into the bathroom after Clint and starts pulling Clint’s shirt off over his head. “Shitty week when you’re working at a shelter for victims of domestic violence has to be pretty damn shitty.”

“I’m sure we’ll hear plenty about it,” says Clint as he assists Phil with his shirt.

Showering with Clint tends to take about three times as long as a solo shower, but Phil doesn’t mind. He’d never really understood the luxury of weekends till Clint started staying over two nights in a row. Now, Saturdays and Sundays are defined by ordering in, watching action movies (spy stuff is strictly off limits since Phil prefers escapism), and lazy making out that gradually turns into lazy sex. Just like now, even though they’re technically supposed to be showering.

“I was thinking of telling you to stop kissing me,” Phil says, catching his breath. “But that would be a terrible idea.”

“Glad we’re on the same page here,” says Clint before kissing him again.

After a shower that lasts substantially longer than it probably should’ve, a trip to the grocery and liquor stores, and a meal that’s not quite lunch and not quite dinner, Phil and Clint make their way to Clint and Natasha’s.

“Are you sure she wants me here?” Phil asks Clint as Clint unlocks the door. Clint just rolls his eyes and swings the door open. Natasha hops up from the couch with characteristic grace and steps across the room to give Clint a hug. He pulls her in close.

“Shit week?” Clint asks.

“Shittiest,” confirms Natasha before letting him go and stepping toward Phil. She slings her arms around his neck, and while Phil doesn’t feel awkward often, he does now as he loops his arms around her waist.

“Aw,” she says. “It’s like we’re dancing.”

Phil feels his face redden as Clint laughs. “You know you can hug her the way you hug me, right?”

“I don’t think Natasha wants me to give her a special hug, Clint,” says Phil.

“Special hug?” Clint cringes. “That’s what your parents called sex, isn’t it?”

“Yes, when I was seven,” Phil says. “It kept me from asking about it again for literally years. As I’m sure was their intent.”

“It’s not a bad hug, Phil,” says Natasha. “You’re not a bad hugger. Is that why you’re keeping him around, Clint? Or, rather, he’s keeping you around? Because you’ve certainly been over there more than he’s been over here.” She refocuses her attention on Phil. “You can come here whenever you want, you know. You’ve made Clint happy. That means you’ll always be welcome.” She pauses. “Unless you fuck up, in which case it would be in your best interest to stay as far away as possible.”

Phil laughs weakly. “I’m planning on avoiding that,” he says. “We brought vodka.”

“And cookies,” Clint adds, holding up the paper bag in his hand.

“And my own personal copy of _Kate & Leopold_,” says Phil. 

“You own _Kate & Leopold_?” Natasha looks over her shoulder as she walks toward the kitchen and gets herself a glass. “I thought you found him at the laundromat, not some sort of factory where they engineer perfect gay boyfriends.”

“May as well have,” Clint says, and Natasha mimes vomiting.

“I’m going to need some of that vodka now,” she says, and Clint nods and brings her the bottle. Slowly, surely, Natasha tells Phil and Clint about her week, and Phil begins to learn how grim Natasha’s reality can be, spending so much time in that environment. She’s all the stronger for it, though, and by the time they’re critiquing Liev Schreiber’s performance and Natasha’s giggling at every other thing Clint says, Phil feels like he’s made a close friend here. He tells Clint so when they’re in bed, Clint curled around Phil, Phil tapping out his favorite drum cadences on the backs of Clint’s hands. (He doesn’t do it often, but ever since he did it for the first time and Clint couldn’t stop guessing—incorrectly—what Phil was drumming, it’s been kind of a thing.)

“She loves you,” Clint says, almost blandly, like Natasha’s appreciation for Phil isn’t a big deal. “Which is cool, since you’re kind of here to stay and all.”

“A little more than ‘kind of,’” says Phil. “I don’t think you have any idea how glad I am to hear you say that, though.”

“Why does it matter to you so much?” Clint asks. “She’s just my roommate.”

“Natasha’s not just your roommate. Natasha’s your best friend. Natasha’s very nearly your sister. She’s the only family you have, and it’s ... I’m surprised you didn’t realize how important it would be for me to have her approval. And appreciation, as it were.”

Clint tugs at Phil’s shoulder till he’s turned around in Clint’s arms and they’re looking at each other. “Sometimes I think I’m over how good you make me feel when you say stuff like that.” Clint’s voice drops to a whisper. “Then you say it, and it’s just ... You’re amazing, Phil. You’re really, really amazing.”

“Right back at you,” Phil whispers back, smiling. “I’m going to kiss you now, OK?”

“Thank God you asked permission.”

Phil laughs and leans in.


	9. For Now

“I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

Clint turns around. Phil and Natasha are standing behind him, and he chalks their silent approach up to their secret agent and former assassin statuses, respectively. Granted, he wasn’t exactly on high alert. Gotham Archery’s not really a hotbed of activity at any time, considering the number of private lessons they give out rather than group classes. Right now, Clint’s getting ready for his next student and, apparently, being visited by his boyfriend and his best friend.

Clint shakes his head and pulls Phil forward by the front of his t-shirt, kissing him. It’s not a particularly chaste kiss, but he has his reasons; Phil’s been away for two weeks, and he’s only back just in time for Clint’s birthday. Natasha rolls her eyes, but she looks pleased enough to see Phil, too.

“Not interrupting, no,” says Clint, grinning. “How was your trip?”

“Exhausting,” Phil says. “I hope you’re looking forward to a birthday celebration filled with reality television and napping.”

“I can’t really tell how serious you’re being,” says Clint.

“He’s not,” Natasha says. “He told me what we’re doing. It has nothing to do with either TV or naps.”

“I was trying to play that one close to the vest, Natasha.”

“You weren’t trying hard enough.”

“Anyway, I just got back an hour ago,” says Phil. “I thought I’d stop by. And then Natasha thought she would, too, after I called her.”

“You call Nat now?” Clint asks. “Trying to snake my best friend?”

“And succeeding.” Phil nods. “Have you had any lessons yet today?”

“Yeah, two. My third’ll be here in about 15 minutes. Do you want a tour?”

“I’d like nothing more,” says Phil, and so Clint leads Phil and Nat around the—facilities? Studio? Gym? He’s never really figured out what to call it. All he knows is it feels like the most familiar place in the world, aside from with Phil at his place, which Clint doesn’t know if he’d admit out loud, but it’s become true almost shockingly fast. Phil and Nat act impressed and interested at the appropriate moments, and Clint’s surprised at the pride he feels in Gotham Archery. Pleasantly surprised.

“So, yeah, that’s about it, and this is basically my office,” he says, walking them back to the room where they started.

“Feel free to practice some more,” says Phil, smiling, his face a little redder than usual. “I don’t get to see you do this enough.”

“I haven’t seen you shoot in a while, either,” Natasha says. “Do your worst.”

“Can’t help doing my best,” says Clint, winking. Natasha rolls her eyes again—she’s an expert, really—and Clint scoops up his compound, removing an arrow from his quiver as he goes. He doesn’t favor the compound, never has, likely never will, but this afternoon’s student, Kate, is crazy for it, so he’s re-familiarizing himself with it. Because he’s feeling particularly happy, and maybe a little snarky, right now, Clint shoots a series of arrows in a smiley face pattern.

“World’s greatest marksman indeed,” Phil says dryly.

Clint bows deeply. That’s when he notices that there’s a guy in a floor-length leather coat with an eye patch standing at the open doorway. “Phil, are you supposed to be at work? Because I’m pretty sure your boss is checking up on you.”

Phil looks over his shoulder and sighs deeply. “Seriously, Nick? Are you having me tailed?”

“Wasn’t that hard to find you, really,” says Fury. “You’re getting sloppy.”

“It did not occur to me to be sneaky,” Phil says. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, I was just hoping to talk to Barton again. Maybe change his mind about my offer. Although these are pretty nice digs.”

“Answer’s still no, Fury,” says Clint, shouldering his bow. “I thought I made that clear by, you know, not answering you.”

Fury walks forward to look at the three of them. Something odd happens to his face when his eye passes over Natasha.

“Shit, Cheese,” he says. “You never told me you were friends with the Black Widow.”

Thanks to Nat, Clint speaks just enough Russian to know that she’s cursing right now.

“The Black Widow?” Phil narrows his eyes at Fury. “The Russian spy that Hill and Sitwell have been after for something like five years?”

“Former Russian spy,” Natasha corrects him. “When Clint decided he wasn’t cut out for the mercenary life anymore, I went along with him. I find I sleep much better at night now.” She grits her teeth and adds, “Though that may not be true now that I’ve been identified.”

“I won’t cause you any trouble, Romanoff,” says Fury. “But I will offer you a job. Actually, I think you and Barton would work well together. Maybe under a capable if humorless senior agent.”

“I’m not humorless,” Phil says. “And, again, seriously, Nick? Clint doesn’t want a job. I’m pretty sure Natasha doesn’t want a job.” Phil looks to Natasha for confirmation. She nods briskly. Clint extends his free hand to her, and she takes it. “I realize they’re both highly skilled and would make excellent field agents. But the answer is no, Director Fury.”

“I would say the two of them can speak for themselves, but I guess they already have,” says Fury. “Fine. I’ll leave you to ... whatever it is that you were doing.” And with an honest-to-God _flourish_ , he leaves the room.

Phil looks from Nat to Clint and back again at Nat before asking, “What kind of nickname is ‘Black Widow?’”

“A badass one,” Clint says, smiling weakly. He drops Nat’s hand, assuming she doesn’t need his reassurance anymore, if she ever did.

“A necessary one,” says Natasha. “Couldn’t go by my real name. Still can’t. Clint picked this one. Do you like it?”

“It suits you,” Phil says. “My boss really is a prick, isn’t he?”

“Did you really mean that?” asks Clint, unable to hold back any longer.

“That he’s a prick? Yes.”

“No,” Clint says. “The part where you said we’d make excellent field agents.”

Phil shakes his head with some force. “No. No. Don’t you get any ideas.”

“Nat would look really good in a catsuit,” says Clint.

“And you would look incredible in a tac vest, but that doesn’t mean I’m recruiting you,” Phil says.

“I understand why you would believe Clint would work well within your organization,” says Nat. “And yes, before we go any further, I know SHIELD. I know they’ve been looking for me. They’re not very good at it.”

“That’s only because I haven’t been helping,” Phil says. “And if you’re about to ask how I know you would be good, well, your track record indicates as such. I may not have been involved in the search, but I heard plenty about it. Hill and Sitwell are my friends, and my friends have a tendency to talk about nothing but work.”

“That’s why you need us, right?” Clint smiles, and this time it’s a bit stronger, because Phil’s resistance to the idea of Clint and Nat as agents is just so damn _cute_.

“Natasha, yes. You, among other reasons.” Phil smiles back, and Natasha’s back to rolling her eyes, and Clint wonders how long they’re going to have to put off another conversation about this. A while, probably. It’s not that he wants to join SHIELD, but he doesn’t _not_ want to join SHIELD. After all, is there any cooler profession than secret agent? Clint looks at Phil, and thinks that no, there really isn’t. But for now, considering Kate’s on her way in, he’ll stick to archery instructor.

For now.

He doesn’t warn Phil that he’s coming over after work, which is probably why Phil’s rubbing his eyes like he isn’t used to light when he opens the door. He waves his hand at Clint’s apology.

“You can shower and nap with me,” says Phil. “Well, nap with me. I don’t think I need a shower.”

“But I do?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You already did!”

Phil smiles and tugs at Clint’s hand till he’s close enough to kiss, then does so. Though the sex is awesome, kissing Phil probably won’t ever lose its appeal. He’s just too good at it, so sensitive to what Clint wants and generously providing, like he is right now, albeit a little slower than usual.

“You’re really tired, aren’t you?” Clint rubs his nose against Phil’s.

“I am really tired,” says Phil. “Shower. Sleep. Then we’ll watch all the _Everwood_ we haven’t seen yet.”

“You have literally the worst taste in television you could possibly have,” Clint says. “And I didn’t hear ‘sex’ at all in there.”

“Remember how tired I am? It would be awful. I would be awful.”

“Not possible.”

“Believe me, it is,” says Phil. He lets go of Clint’s hands and pushes him in the general direction of the bathroom. The main one, that is. Phil’s place has two. Someday, Clint’s going to ask him about his salary.

“Sure you don’t want to join?” Clint gives Phil his best puppy eyes. Phil groans and follows him into the bathroom.

Phil’s telling the truth when he says he’s tired. Even after a two-hour nap, he falls asleep 15 minutes into the first _Everwood_. Clint finishes the episode and carefully tracks back to the point at which Phil nodded off so Phil can’t mock him for it. He’ll probably figure it out anyway, crafty bastard.

It’s at this point that Clint wonders whether he’s supposed to stick around or not. He experimentally shifts around on the couch, where Phil’s slumped against him. Phil makes a bit of a whining noise and throws a leg over Clint’s.

“Guess I’m not going anywhere, then,” Clint says softly, smiling down at Phil.

“Not a chance,” says Phil. “Order dinner. I’m going to be awhile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be longer again. And involve EVEN MORE FLUFF, probably.


	10. Best Birthday Ever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 100% fluff. You have been warned.

Clint’s 30th birthday falls on a Wednesday. To Phil, Wednesday’s not the best day for a celebration, but from what he can gauge, birthdays have never been a priority for Clint, and he intends to change that. Granted, since Phil’s past 30, he doesn’t like a lot of fanfare surrounding his own anymore. But Clint ... Clint deserves fanfare. He deserves all the fanfare he’s never gotten, and Phil plans to give it to him.

So after dinner at Gramercy Tavern—and yes, Phil is fully aware that he’s going to have to disclose his salary to Clint at some point, just so Clint can be assured that this relationship isn’t completely demolishing Phil’s bank account—Phil hails them a cab, and the look on Clint’s face when he hears where they’re going wouldn’t be out of place on a kid at Disney World for the first time.

“The Lyceum?” He looks at Phil.

Phil nods.

“Where they do _The Lion King_?”

Phil nods again and can’t help smiling.

Clint grins and bounces up and down a bit in his seat for a moment before scooting closer to Phil and laying his head on Phil’s shoulder. “Best boyfriend ever,” he says.

(Weeks before, they’d been sacked out on the couch together, Phil slouched in a roughly seated position, Clint lying down with his head in Phil’s lap. An ad for _The Lion King_ came on, and Clint commented that he’d never been to a Broadway show, and that he had a real soft spot for _The Lion King_ , and if he were ever going to go to one, it would definitely be that. Later, when Phil was racking his brain about what to get Clint for his birthday, he remembered that as one of the few times Clint had said he wanted to do something.)

“I do OK,” says Phil. “I just hope Natasha isn’t too offended that she only got invited to the theater portion of the evening.”

“You got Nat to agree to see _The Lion King_?”

“Didn’t take much when I provided the ticket and told her she might get to see you weep.”

“I guess that would be enough motivation for her,” Clint says. “Have you seen it?”

“I haven’t,” says Phil. “Usually, if I go to a show, it’s because someone at the office has an extra ticket.”

“But you got tickets for this one.”

“I did.”

“Because you love me,” Clint says in a singsong tone.

“I do.”

“And it works out well, ‘cause I love you, too,” says Clint, stretching upward to kiss Phil on the cheek. “Also, are we there yet?”

“I thought you were 30, not 9,” Phil says. “But yes. We are there.”

It’s a great show—Phil’s not surprised, that’s all he’s heard about it—and he’s not surprised that Clint agrees, tapping his thumb against the back of Phil’s hand in time with the music, laughing and tearing up and applauding so loudly at the end that the palms of his hands must hurt. Natasha’s excitement, he hadn’t anticipated. She’s not quite jumping out of her seat, but she’s nearly there, and he’s never seen her look so ... _unguarded_ before. It’s kind of beautiful, really. He tells Clint that later when they’re having a rare midweek sleepover (which is what Clint still calls it when either he or Phil stays the night at the other’s apartment) and eating ice cream out of the carton on Phil’s couch.

“You know what’s great about you?” Clint takes the carton from Phil and gulps down a spoonful of mint chocolate chip.

“Enlighten me.”

“You love Nat the same way I love Nat, and you accept that she’s a huge part of my life without being jealous.” He hands the carton back to Phil. “That’s one of the approximately 600 billion great things about you.”

“600 billion, huh?” Phil digs his spoon into the carton. “I should stop eating this. I’m supposed to teach a hand-to-hand class tomorrow.”

“You teach hand-to-hand? I would give anything to see you teach hand-to-hand.”

“I don’t do it a lot,” says Phil. “I’m just filling in for Melinda. Doing her a favor.”

“She does seem like someone who teaches people to kick ass for a living,” Clint says, and Phil laughs, because yeah, that’s pretty accurate as far as first impressions go. “Speaking of a living.”

“Smooth.”

“How are you affording all this?” Clint gestures around the apartment—which, Phil would admit, was at first a bit ostentatious for his tastes, with its 2BA/2BR setup and fairly spacious living room, plus four (!) closets. “I mean, we go to one of the nicest restaurants in Manhattan, and then you treat Nat and me to a play, and the seats are great, and you’ll probably insist on paying for our next two dates or something like that. What are you making, Phil?”

“Are we at that crucial two-months-in point of our relationship at which I tell you what I make?”

“Is that a thing?”

“No.” Phil gives him a figure. Clint’s eyes widen.

“I guess I don’t have to worry, then,” he says.

“No,” says Phil. “You really don’t. And I don’t want you to ever feel like I’m being condescending when I treat you to something. You’re my boyfriend, and you deserve nice things, and I’m going to give them to you, OK?”

“Just as long as you let me repay you once in a while,” Clint says, plucking the carton and the spoon out of Phil’s hands and putting them aside on the coffee table before crawling onto Phil’s lap. Putting a hand on either side of Phil’s face, he kisses him, full and hard and filthy.

“Oh, OK,” says Phil, and Clint snorts before kissing him again. It’s not long till they’re making out like teenagers, Clint pushing Phil’s battered copy of _Neverwhere_ off the couch and pulling Phil till he’s underneath Clint completely. He rolls his hips upward to meet Clint’s, and Clint hisses in that way he does that drives Phil absolutely crazy, and he breathes out “Best birthday ever” as he stretches upward to take off his shirt. He raises an eyebrow at Phil, who lifts his arms so Clint can help him out of his, and it’s not long till their clothes are lying in heaps around the living room and they’re both sated and spent and perfectly content with camping out on the couch for the night.

Well, Phil would be if he weren’t so ... _sticky_ , anyway.

“Shower?” he suggests to Clint, who nods and gets to his feet, pulling Phil up with him. Phil waits till they’re standing together under the spray to ask, “You meant that, didn’t you? The best birthday thing, I mean.”

“Of course I mean it,” says Clint. “You should know this by now, Phil. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in ... ever, really.” Phil can tell Clint wants to drop his gaze, but he doesn’t, maintaining eye contact, and Phil can’t stop his voice from cracking slightly when he says, “I feel the same way about you.” Then they’re kissing again, and not for the first time with Clint, Phil wishes he were ten years younger so they could go another round, maybe a little softer, a little less frantic than a few minutes before. He settles for the kissing, which is an acceptable alternative.

“So you finally brought some of your own pajamas over, huh?” Phil asks when Clint joins him in bed a few minutes later.

“You don’t own purple sweatpants, then?”

“I do not. I don’t even own sweatpants. Well. Maybe SHIELD sweatpants. But I don’t wear them.”

“Right,” says Clint. “Because your pajama shirt and pajama pants have to match. Like a suit.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I thought it was funny, too.” Clint grins and kisses Phil on the cheek. “Yeah, I brought some clothes and stuff over when I was checking up on your place while you were away. Is that OK?”

“Of course it’s OK,” says Phil, trying to sound flippant. “You might as well live here.”

Clint just looks at him for a few seconds before asking, “You want me to move in with you?”

“I mean, well, maybe not right now, but you could think about it. Take it into consideration. For the future.”

“I wouldn’t be much further away from work,” Clint says thoughtfully. “And Nat probably wouldn’t mind the extra space. Her ex is coming back to New York in a week or so, and I bet he’s not going to be her ex for long.”

“Serious relationship, then?”

“They’re serious once every couple years, yeah.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah, Alexi is great,” says Clint. “Would you mind, then?”

“What?”

“If I moved in with you?”

“Clint, we’ve been together for two months,” Phil says.

“So? You’re the one who kind of jokingly but totally seriously suggested it a second ago.”

“I...” Phil looks at Clint, recalls that he’s never had a relationship like this before, one that feels so stable, has since the beginning. He loves Clint—he has from the start—and Clint, however improbably, loves him, so really, why the hell not? “No. I wouldn’t mind. Not at all. Talk to Natasha first, obviously.”

Clint picks up his phone off the nightstand Phil not-so-covertly put at Clint’s side of the bed weeks before. “Not now,” Phil says, laughing, and Clint looks at him, smiling sheepishly. He brushes a kiss across Phil’s cheek, puts his phone back, and gestures at Phil, a gesture Phil can’t understand.

“What was that supposed to mean?”

“Make yourself spoon-able,” says Clint.

“Oh. Yes. Noted.” Phil does so, and Clint curls up behind him, and how well they fit together is, to Phil, undeniable.


	11. A Significant Commitment

“I’ve been thinking.” Natasha tosses a knife at the target Clint’s been shooting. It lands neatly between his first two arrows.

“Yeah?” Clint draws back his bow and releases. His arrow strikes Nat’s knife, not quite dislodging it.

She nudges him with her shoulder. “Asshole.”

“That’s what you get for trying to steal my target,” he says, smirking. “What have you been thinking about?”

“SHIELD,” says Nat, walking over to the target and retrieving her knife. The sun’s setting over the city, and Clint’s been sleeping on Nat’s couch for the past two nights. He hasn’t had the guts to ask his new landlord about setting up targets on the roof just yet, and Phil’s out of town, so he’s been spending time with Nat and Alexi, who’s still sleeping in Clint’s old room, though Clint’s guessing that won’t last long.

“What about SHIELD? Also, can you cover my eyes?”

“You know you don’t have to wear a blindfold when you shoot anymore, right? You’re not in the circus. You’re not standing on the back of a horse.”

“I know. Keeps me sharp.”

Natasha steps behind him and puts her hands over his eyes. He doesn’t quite hit the bullseye, but it’s close enough. Nat moves back next to him.

“I’ve been thinking that I respect what they’re doing, and I’m considering taking Nick Fury up on his offer,” she says.

“Oh,” says Clint. “That’s ... something. What made you change your mind?”

“Phil,” she says. “If they’re trustworthy, if they’re good enough for Phil, then they’re certainly good enough for me. And I’m getting restless. As much good as I can do at the shelter, think about how much more I could do for an organization like SHIELD.”

“Phil doesn’t love everything about SHIELD, you know,” says Clint, slinging his bow over his shoulder. “Finds some of the higher-ups’ morals questionable. Doesn’t always accept his assignments. That kind of thing. I don’t know if you’d have that kind of freedom straightaway.”

“I have spoken with Nick Fury,” Nat says, and Clint’s not entirely surprised that that’s already happened. “He assures me that all my work will be at my own discretion, regardless of level ranking.”

Clint nods. He’s heard a bit about SHIELD rankings from Phil, how Phil’s one of very few at Level 8, and everyone starts at 1, and sometimes, it’s impossible for an agent to get past 3 or 4, for whatever reason. “So you’re thinking about this seriously?”

“Yes.” She pauses, then says, “I thought you could talk to Phil about it. If he’s violently opposed, I would like to know why.”

“I’m supposed to call him tonight.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Judgy.”

“Not that, either.” Nat smiles faintly. “You’re in a relationship, and it’s healthy, and you’re happier than I’ve ever seen you. I just like picking you apart, no matter how well you’re doing.”

“Reassuring,” says Clint. “Anyway, yeah, I’ll talk to Phil about it. I should go back to our place, anyway. He’s supposed to be back late tomorrow night. I want everything to be ... less Clint-like, more Phil-like when he comes back.”

“Have you been leaving Clint debris all over the place?”

“Define ‘all over the place,’” says Clint. “I mean, what are drawers for, anyway?”

“Clothes.”

“But there’s so much floor space!”

“Yes,” Nat says. “Which is for walking. Which is hard to do when you have to avoid piles of hoodies with the sleeves cut off.”

“In my defense, it’s a good look,” says Clint.

“Only because of your arms.”

“Fair.”

“Did you want to have dinner with Alexi and me tonight?” she asks. “He’s making stroganoff. And blini.”

“You almost had me with the blini, but I have a date with some salmon rolls,” says Clint. “You’d think a guy like Phil would appreciate the deliciousness of sushi. But you’d be wrong. I haven’t had it in ... shit, four months? Have I seriously been in a relationship that long?”

“You have, Clint.” Nat smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “And don’t tell anyone I said so, but you deserve it.”

Clint hugs her before leaving for edamame, sushi, and even a glass of sake—not his usual dinner, but he hasn’t eaten anything better than a grilled cheese or a frozen meal for days. It just doesn’t seem worth it when he doesn’t have anyone to share his food with. Before he’s even poured out some soy sauce, Clint’s phone rings.

“Hey,” he says upon answering, trying not to sound too excited.

“Hello.” Phil’s voice is richer and deeper than the day before—must be getting better reception in tonight’s digs. He’s in New Orleans, tracking someone of interest to SHIELD. It’s not a dangerous mission, really just surveillance, so Clint’s been resting easy. “How’s it going? You back at our place?”

“Yeah, figured I was overstaying my welcome at Nat’s,” says Clint. “She and Alexi... If they’re not dating yet, they will be by the end of the week.”

“He seems like a decent guy,” Phil says. They'd met a few times before Phil left for his trip.

“Everyone’s decent to you,” says Clint. “You bring it out of people. Nat and I had an interesting conversation.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“She wants to join SHIELD. Says if it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for her.”

“Huh. Guess that’s not mind-blowing or anything. I bet she’s bored, not having anything to knife.” Clint laughs. He’d recently told Phil about how he and Natasha first met—he’d been assigned to take her out and simply couldn’t once he saw how strong she was, and how much good she was doing, in the way that a mercenary can do good—and what a great team they’d made, him with his sidearm and his bow, her with her expansive collection of custom-made knives.

“Would it bother you if she joined?”

“I don’t think so, no,” says Phil. “Working for SHIELD is a significant commitment, but it’s rewarding. And while I wouldn’t say they deny their more questionable practices—that is, that they exist—they’re open to those who might disagree with what they do. Natasha would be a good fit. Honestly, Clint, I’m more worried that you’ll want to follow after her.”

“You really don’t want me to, do you?” Clint asks. “Why is that?” He readies himself for a long explanation, taking his chopsticks in hand and popping a salmon roll in his mouth. It’s delicious. If only Phil understood.

“I’m concerned about your safety enough as it is,” says Phil. “I know you’re living clean, know you have been for a while, but you yourself have admitted that there might be people out there who would rather you not be living at all. And when you’re an active field agent, you make enemies. You take killshots. You’re dealing with more life-or-death scenarios than even a mercenary has to endure. It’s not a life I’d wish for you. Not now.”

“And yet, you’ll do it yourself.”

“I’m not a full-time field agent, and I haven’t made myself many enemies. I’ve never killed in the name of SHIELD.” Phil gets quiet for a moment. “I’ve been asked to. But I haven’t. I think that’s one reason Fury keeps me around—I’m willing to question orders from on high when I think they’re faulty.”

“Never killed?”

“Not since I was a Ranger,” says Phil. He doesn’t talk much about the Army, and Clint doesn’t ask him to. There are valid reasons not to give each other details about what they’ve done before. As Phil is fond of saying when Clint can’t seem to say anything about how he used to live, what’s past is past and what’s happening is all that really matters.

“Pretty rare for a SHIELD agent, I’m guessing,” Clint says.

“It is. And I don’t think it’ll always be true. But I’ll hold onto it while I can.” Phil chuckles. “That got heavy. So. I’m guessing Natasha wanted my blessing?”

“More or less, yeah.”

“She has it,” says Phil. “Is it complaining time yet?”

“I always look forward to this,” Clint says, and he means it. Phil’s great at whining about missions, especially the dull ones.

“Let’s start with this bed,” says Phil, and as he describes the decrepit state of his hotel room, Clint can visualize what he looks like, leaning against the lumpy pillows with his legs stretched out in front of him, the fingers on his free hand toying with the threadbare comforter.

“And on top of the smell, the inexplicably tiled floor, and the sub-twin size of the bed, you have to deal with Woo,” Clint says.

“Yes, who—look, Jimmy’s just fine when we’re not in the field. He has this crazy encyclopedic knowledge of film, he was a SEAL and has great stories about that, and he has a wildly inappropriate sense of humor,” says Phil. “But if you think this is whining, you should hear him when he gets going about how much he misses his wife, and what a tyrant she becomes when she’s pregnant, which she is right now, for the fourth time.”

“Four?”

“Four.”

“That’s ... that’s too many kids, Phil.”

“Way too many,” Phil agrees. “And Woo thinks so, too. I can verify he thinks so, because he’s said so at least double that many times.”

Clint laughs. “If only my job led to as many entertaining complaints as yours,” he says. “Right now, all I have is that this new kid—Kevin, I think? He’s got a bit of a crush on me. I remember what that was like, being a teenager and kind of confused about why you’re suddenly checking out guys’ asses and feeling funny when you’re in the locker room. But seeing it from this end ... Yeah, it’s kind of awkward.”

“Do I have anything to worry about?” Phil teases.

“16. He’s 16. And I’m not you. I don’t rob the cradle.”

“I resent that.”

“Of course you do.” Clint swallows down another salmon roll. “I’m eating sushi.”

“That’s disgusting,” says Phil. “Thank you for not doing it in my presence. Please make sure there is no evidence that it was ever there by the time I get back.”

“Duly noted. Is it dumb that I miss you? It’s been, like, five days and I miss you. Bed’s colder without you.”

“I hope it’s not dumb. Since I miss you, too. And I’ll be back in approximately 28 hours.”

“28 too many.” Clint heaves a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I can manage.”

“I should go,” says Phil. “I hear Woo knocking. He always does shave-and-a-haircut. It’s never funny.”

“Go tell him that,” Clint says. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

If Clint’s smiling ridiculously widely when he hangs up, at least there’s no one else there to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Clint, "the locker room" was probably a trailer at Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders, but the simile stands.
> 
> I stayed in a hotel with a tiled floor once. It wasn't a bad hotel, but that was REALLY WEIRD.


	12. A Lateral Career Move

“So, let’s see if I have this right,” says Nick. “You’re asking for a demotion?”

“Actually, I see it as more of a lateral career move,” Phil says. He rarely gets nervous, but he can’t seem to stop tapping his foot in an erratic rhythm as he sits opposite Nick in the director’s office. “I just gained you a field agent, so really, I’m just canceling things out.”

“That’s it, then? You’re just done with field work?”

“Maybe not done completely. But, essentially, yes. I’d like to take on a more strategic or administrative role, maybe teach a class or two at the academy.”

“You want to trade in the tac suit for a blazer with elbow patches and a pair of thick glasses?”

“I don’t think SHIELD Academy instructors look like philosophy professors, Nick,” says Phil. “And I already have the glasses. And they’re not that thick, but thanks for that slight.”

“Anytime,” Nick says. “So, what sort of circumstances would bring you back to the field?”

“It’s a short list, really,” says Phil, holding up his hand and ticking off a list on his fingers. “Aliens. Captain America. And, I don’t know, ancient gods coming down to earth to stir up some sort of ruckus.”

For the first time since they’ve sat down, there’s a crack in Nick’s stone-faced façade, and he’s just on the edge of smiling. “So you’re saying if I bring you a little green man, a super soldier who’s been on ice for over 60 years, or Zeus, you’re back out there?”

“I’m back out there,” Phil says with a nod.

“Does this have anything to do with that boy of yours?”

“Come on, Nick, you already know the answer to that.”

“Of course I do. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have to say it.”

Phil sighs. “It has everything to do with Clint. You’ve never forced me to kill anyone, and I appreciate that. But I can foresee situations in which both Clint’s and my safety would be compromised, and while I’m comfortable being a SHIELD agent—or instructor, whatever—I don’t think I can enter into those situations anymore.”

“Some of our finest field agents have left for the same reason,” says Nick. “And you’re not just one of the finest, Cheese. You’re the best we have. Don’t tell Hill I said so, though.”

“She’s a better tactician than I am.”

“Maybe in a war room, but not in the field.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Nick smiles. “Let me think about where you should be going next, and what I want you doing. In the meantime, take the rest of the day off.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Nick looks at Phil for a moment before saying, “I’m not sure you’re doing the right thing for SHIELD, but you’re doing the right thing for yourself.”

“Maybe you’re not a prick after all,” says Phil, standing and saluting.

Nick returns the salute. “No, I’m definitely a prick. But I’m also honest.”

Phil calls Clint on his way out of the building. “You free right now?” he asks as soon as Clint answers. “Got the day off and I haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

“Yeah, I’m at our place,” Clint says. “What’s up? World doesn’t need saving right now?”

“Something like that,” says Phil. “Can you order the usual from Luigi’s?”

“On it.”

Within half an hour, he’s greeted by the strong smell of pizza with fresh mozzarella and the sight of a shirtless Clint, who hasn’t bothered to get dressed at all, judging from the cutoff sweats and bare feet.

“Did you answer the door like that?” Phil asks in greeting. He kisses Clint, who’s smiling.

“Good to see you, too, sweetheart,” says Clint. “And no. This is all for you. Plus, it’s really damn hot out.”

“Pet names, huh? Someone’s in a good mood.”

“Yeah, well, someone found out half an hour ago that they get to spend a day in the middle of the week with their semi-workaholic boyfriend.”

“Fair,” says Phil. “Let’s eat. I have some news.”

“You’re not pregnant, are you? ‘Cause that’d be a real buzzkill.” Clint sits down on the couch and takes a slice of pizza out of the open box on the coffee table. “Oh, there’s a couple glass bottles of Coke in the fridge.”

“Ooh, fancy,” says Phil, retrieving them before sitting next to Clint. “This ... doesn’t look like English.”

“Alexi got some shipped here from Russia. Swears they taste a million times better than American Coke. I’ll give him this, they definitely use real sugar.” Clint folds his slice in half before taking a couple bites and washing them down with a swig of Coke. “What’s up?”

“Had a meeting with Fury today,” says Phil. “I asked for a transfer.”

Clint pauses and turns to look at Phil. “Transfer? Like, departments? Locations?”

“Like, no more field work.”

“You quit your job?”

“Kind of, yeah,” Phil says. “I’m going to be teaching classes at SHIELD Academy now to new recruits, doing some of the same desk work I do now.”

“What made you decide that?” Clint finishes his slice of pizza and puts his hand on Phil’s thigh. “Because if this is just because of me—just because I’m not taking a job there, and you feel some kind of need for solidarity—then I don’t want you to do it.”

“It’s not that,” says Phil. “It’s ... Look, SHIELD agent, it’s not a particularly safe job. And since we got together, I’ve been more and more hesitant to take field assignments. I just can’t imagine me losing you, or you losing me. It’s as much for me as it is for you, Clint.”

“Aren’t you going to miss it?”

“Well, yeah, sometimes, I suppose. Free travel, different cultures, making the world a safer place—it has its benefits. But I’d rather be able to come home to you every night.”

“I was going to say ‘You really care about this relationship, don’t you?’” says Clint, smiling faintly. “But I know you do. There’s no need to ask that anymore. There hasn’t been since ... there never has been, really.”

“I think I would’ve come to this decision eventually, with or without you,” Phil says, sliding his hand over Clint’s. “It’s not the most stable career to stick with. And I love Japan and Austria and Mumbai, but I think I’d love them more if I was there in circumstances that weren’t life-threatening.”

“So, you’re doing this, then? You’re trading in actual secret agent shit for a desk job and a podium? You _are_ going to look really, really hot in cardigans and glasses,” Clint says, sounding thoughtful. “You’re already hot with the glasses.”

“That’s a lot like something Nick said.”

“He thinks you’re hot?”

“No, the trading in part,” Phil says. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“Of course I’m not mad, Phil,” says Clint. “I just—are you sure about this? Because it seems selfish not to ask.”

“I’ve been thinking about it since Nick first asked you to join,” Phil says. “Then Natasha actually did join, and that got me thinking harder. It’s such a perfect fit for her. And it’s just not right for me anymore. Not now that you have me, and I have you.”

“As long as you’re sure about it, then I’m on board,” says Clint. He leans over to kiss Phil, who keeps his mouth firmly closed. “What, I don’t get your tongue?”

Phil gives Clint a pointed look as he chews and swallows. “Not when there’s pizza all over it.”

“What if that’s a kink for me and you don’t know it?”

“Then I’m sorry, Clint, but we’re not exploring this particular kink,” Phil says.

Clint heaves a sigh. “Fine. Do I get your tongue _now_?”

“Sometimes, I don’t even know why you ask,” says Phil, turning toward Clint. He loops his arms around Clint’s neck and leans in, starting at Clint’s throat, the sensitive skin over his Adam’s apple, and working his way up with nips and fleeting kisses. Having been together half a year now, the driving need to have sex every time they’re together is long gone. But this—the long, drawn-out makeout sessions that tend to interrupt dinner in the best kind of way—this hasn’t gone away, and Phil doesn’t see that happening anytime soon.

“I could get used to this,” Clint half-groans. “You coming home early to spoil me rotten.”

“I’m still going to have a job, you know,” says Phil.

“Yeah, but not one that keeps you away from me for days on end, right?” Clint tugs at Phil’s earlobe with his teeth, and Phil can’t stifle a moan.

“Unless there are aliens or gods or an unfrozen Captain America. Those were the guidelines.”

“Seems fair,” says Clint. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Phil agrees, and yeah, OK, maybe it doesn’t take much to reawaken that driving need.


	13. This Is Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second-to-last chapter, and the last one's more of an epilogue. Lots of time jumps here, but they feel relatively smooth to me. Thank you for reading so far!

“What about a townhouse?”

“Hm?” Clint lifts his head up from where it’s resting against Phil’s thigh, millimeters away from Phil’s laptop. It’s been about four years, six months, and at least a hundred karaoke nights since Phil changed jobs and started spending substantially more time at home. As a result, the apartment is always clean, takeout is only consumed four nights a week rather than seven, and Phil’s forever coming up with ways to fill the off-hours he and Clint share.

“I was just thinking that we’re probably not leaving Park Slope,” says Phil. “At least, not anytime soon. So I’ve been looking into real estate.”

“You want to buy a house?”

“Townhouse,” Phil corrects Clint. “You know, like a brownstone. With a backyard and enough bedrooms that I could have a home office and we could get you some free weights, maybe build a mini-gym.”

“How long have you been thinking this?” Clint sits up and peers over Phil’s shoulder. He’s looking at a floor plan and a detailed description of a townhouse several blocks from their apartment.

“A pretty long time,” says Phil. “What do you think?”

“Of this one in particular? Or just the idea of owning a place?”

“Let’s start with the latter and work back toward the former.”

“I wouldn’t be able to make much of a contribution, financially,” says Clint. “I mean, I do have some savings now, but it’s not a lot.”

“It’s not nothing,” Phil says. “And try not to think about that aspect. Think about the part where you’re basically stuck with me because both our names are on the lease of a place we own rather than rent.”

“Right. Stuck. How awful.” Clint rolls his eyes and leans over to kiss Phil on the cheek. “I do like the sound of making my own space to work out. And didn’t you say you’re, like, amazing at grilling?”

“I do grill a mean porterhouse.”

“Dork,” Clint says affectionately. “I don’t know, this feels like one of those things I’m supposed to have to think about, but I really don’t need to. We’ve lived together this long and I’m pretty sure we’re both happy doing that, so why not take the next step?”

“My thoughts exactly,” says Phil. He sounds relieved, which makes Clint want to kiss him again, but he waits while Phil explains this particular townhouse’s merits—proximity to the subway, exact square footage, the difference between a bathroom and a half-bath, and so on.

“Have you already seen it?” Clint asks.

Phil shakes his head. “I thought maybe I’d take tomorrow off after class and we could go see it together. Assuming no one rescheduled any lessons for tomorrow.”

“Nope.” Clint’s still adapting to the responsibilities that come with co-managing Gotham Archery, a promotion he’d landed a few months before. Scheduling’s never been his strong suit, but he’s been reassured time and again by both his coworkers and Phil that he’s doing just fine.

“Great. I’ll give the realtor a call, see if we can set something up.”

He can, and he does, and two weeks later, Clint and Phil are homeowners.

It’s not the easiest transition. Because they—well, Phil, really, but some of that’s Clint’s money, probably—bought a place with a couple unfinished rooms, there’s a lot of work to do upon moving in. Plus, the townhouse is so much larger than the old apartment that entire rooms are empty, even after all their furniture, athletic equipment, and oddball memorabilia (Phil’s not the only collector here) is in place. There are more than a few arguments about what to get and where to put it, and what color scheme best suits the basement, but none escalate beyond the kind of sniping both Clint and Phil have gotten great at resolving.

Three months in, they’re curled up on their newest acquisition—a Crate & Barrel couch, while Phil’s old West Elm favorite now takes up its own corner of the basement—and Phil’s browsing a pet adoption website while Clint clicks from channel to channel, head against Phil’s thigh as usual. Clint lands on a _Cheers_ rerun and Phil says, “Oh, this one’s good, leave it.” Clint looks up at Phil and rolls his eyes. Phil smiles down at him and gestures for Clint to lean upward; Clint complies and Phil kisses him, sloppy and sweet.

“It can’t weigh less than 30 pounds, you said, right?” Phil asks. “Full grown, I mean.”

He’s referring to dogs, but all Clint can think is, _This is home_. He doesn’t mean to say so out loud, but he can tell he has after 1) he hears it and 2) Phil rubs suspiciously at his eyes before leaning down to meet Clint’s lips with his again. When that sentimental moment fades, Clint says, “Yes, absolutely, nothing under 30 pounds. We don’t want some weakass Chihuahua running around here. I’d probably squish it.”

Eventually, they settle on a short list of breeds they’re interested in and make their way out to an animal shelter in Williamsburg. Phil pays individual attention to every dog he sees, even the ones Clint’s already ruled out on principle—one that looks like a tiny bat with excess fur, another with a coat that could mop their floor—but that’s just who Phil is, Clint supposes, and he’ll allow it, so long as Phil notices how absolutely awesome Clint’s early favorite is.

“He’s missing an eye,” Phil observes.

“He’s actually not,” says a nearby volunteer, walking over. “He just winks a lot. And I don’t know why you’ve convinced me she’s male. She’s a she. We don’t really have a name for her. Mostly, we just call her baby or sweetie. Pit/lab mix.”

Clint crouches down and scratches the puppy’s ears. “You look like a Trista,” he says, and the puppy stretches upward to lick his face. Clint turns to Phil. “Can we get her?”

Clint can practically see Phil’s resolve melt. “Any behavioral issues?” Phil asks the volunteer.

“None at all,” says the woman. “Very sweet temperament. You might run into some trouble with hyperactivity, but as long as you’re walking her a couple times a day and she’s getting plenty of attention, that shouldn’t get too out of control.”

“We have a yard she’s more than welcome to tear up,” says Clint, looking at Phil hopefully.

“Housetrained?” Phil asks.

The volunteer nods. “Only took a couple days. And, as you said, you have a yard.”

“Two of them. In the front _and_ the back,” Clint says, and that gets Phil to smile and, apparently, relent. He kneels down next to Clint and the puppy, who Clint’s already calling Trista.

“Hey, sweetie,” says Phil, smoothing down the fur on her back. She barks once—quietly, if that’s possible—and nuzzles against his neck.

“Hey, hey, that’s mine,” Clint says, patting Trista on the head. Phil looks at Clint and shakes his head.

“We’re not naming her Trista,” he says.

“We absolutely are,” says Clint.

It takes approximately no time at all for Trista (Clint wins that argument, and if he used a blowjob to secure his victory, well, it was worth the struggle) to settle in. Clint and Phil get her everything the woman at the shelter said is essential and much more than that. “We have the space,” Phil reasons as he picks up the same dog bed in two different patterns. And while Trista seems to appreciate the beds for daytime napping, at night, she prefers the one Clint and Phil share, directly between Clint’s left leg and Phil’s right. They allow it, but only because, as Clint puts it, “she’s just so damn cute with those stupid pointy ears.” (Biology can’t explain the presence of pointed ears, but Clint wouldn’t have it any other way.)

“Do you ever think the only thing that’s missing is wedding rings?” Clint asks Phil after Trista’s first birthday party. If Phil has his way, it’ll also be her last; though Maria, Jasper, Nat, and a number of Phil’s other coworkers attended, they seemed to take great pleasure in making fun of Agent Phil Coulson throwing a party for a dog.

Phil turns off the faucet—turns out you wash your hands a lot when you have a dog and that dog fucking _loves_ dirt—and looks at Clint, who’s straightening up the living room. “You think we’re a suburban cliché now, don’t you?”

“We are neither suburban nor cliché,” says Clint. “We live in Brooklyn, and we’re two gay dudes with a designer dog. OK, the cliché part might be true. But don’t ever call Brooklyn suburban. You know that’s not true.”

“Would you want to get married? If it was legal?”

“Hell yeah,” Clint says. “Filing joint taxes? Picking out china patterns? Designing wedding invitations? I’m getting hard already.”

Phil laughs. “Seriously, would you?”

“I seriously would.” Clint makes his way over to the kitchen and loops his arms around Phil’s waist. “I feel like that’s still a few years off, though.”

“There’ve been murmurs for years,” says Phil, kissing Clint on the cheek. “We’ll get there. And when we do, who gets to be the one to propose?”

“Gets to?” Clint kisses Phil, then does it again, for good measure. “I don’t want that kind of pressure. That can be your job.”

“I promise to do it well,” Phil says, faux solemn.

And, in time, he does.

But that’s not till after the day he gets a work call from Fury for the first time in a solid eight years.

“Looking sharp, Agent,” Clint says, whistling. Phil’s wearing one of his field suits, knotting his tie as his eyes dart around the living room, where Clint and Trista are watching a _Newlywed Game_ marathon.

“Do you know if Alexi’s available to watch Trista?” asks Phil. He has a suitcase in hand.

“I know he’s in town and Nat’s in the field so he’s probably bored beyond reason,” Clint says. “Why?”

“Because Nick called, and he says they found at least one of the three things I said I’d come back for,” says Phil. “Or go back out for, I suppose. They don’t know if it’s an alien or a god, but they’re fairly certain it’s one of the two.”

“Little green man, possibly omnipotent? Sweet,” Clint says. “We’ll hold down the fort.”

Phil walks over to Clint and pulls him to his feet. “No. I told Nick that if I’m doing this, I’m going to need a civilian contractor with me. A sniper. And a damn good one.”

“And he laughed and called you ‘Cheese’ and made a crack about how you can’t stand being away from me for longer than an afternoon?” Clint allows himself to be pulled across the room and up the stairs, where his suitcase is lying open on their bedroom floor.

“Something like that,” says Phil. “What do you say, Specialist? That’s what I’ll be calling you, by the way.”

“Everyone knows we’re together, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but, formalities.”

“Fine,” says Clint. “I guess titles are kind of sexy, in their own way. And as your designated sniper specialist, I say yes, I’d like to shoot some bad guys with you.”

“Thanks for making this so romantic,” Phil says.

“Anytime.”


	14. Wouldn't Have It Any Other Way

“So, let’s go over this one more time.”

“Do we have to?”

“Well, you did kind of ... die,” says Clint, and yeah, Phil has to give him that much. Midtown Manhattan is all but demolished, he might still have a bit of alien staff shrapnel in his chest, and Clint hadn’t been there to see any of it happen. As a rule, whenever Phil went on SHIELD business—be it with gods, aliens, or someone who earlier asked Phil to call him Steve, not Captain Rogers—Clint went, too, sometimes as backup, sometimes just as company. But this time, Clint had opted out. And thank God for that.

“It didn’t last long, though,” Phil says. “They said I was out seven minutes, maybe eight.”

“Long enough to call me.” Clint takes a break from kneading the back of Phil’s neck to cup his chin in one hand. They’re sitting opposite each other on the bed, where they’ve been since Phil came home about an hour before. Phil’s done his best to explain the circumstances, but Clint hasn’t stopped touching him, almost like he’s reminding himself that Phil’s there, since he walked through the door. This could take a while.

“Do you know how terrifying that was?” asks Clint. “I thought you were gone. I was somewhere between hysterical and calling Mom and Dad.” Despite the situation, it does funny things to Phil’s insides, hearing Clint call his parents ‘Mom and Dad.’ It always does, no matter how long they’ve been together, how much he sometimes takes it for granted, especially since he’s had this shiny silver band on his finger.

“I can’t imagine,” Phil says, and Clint seems to appreciate that answer, judging by the kiss that follows. It’s searing, halfway desperate, as all of them have been, but Phil can’t imagine Clint kissing him sweetly and softly right now. Hard and fast and filthy—that’s much more appropriate.

“In the future,” says Clint, “you should tell Fury not to call next of kin until you’re absolutely dead. Assuming this happens again. Which I’d rather assume it won’t.”

Phil shakes his head. Hard. “I’m out. This was it.”

“Even with Steve around?” Clint and Steve sometimes get together during the day to play video games at Tony Stark’s place. It’s adorable, though Phil would never tell Clint that.

“Even with Steve around.”

“But what about the Avengers Initiative?” Clint runs his hand along the side of Phil’s face. “Phil, this project’s been your baby.”

“Only the administrative parts,” says Phil. “None of the fieldwork. I shouldn’t have even been on the helicarrier when I was.” The Avengers have been something of a nightmare to get together, and Phil doesn’t envy Maria Hill’s role in the operation. Clint got asked to join more than once, and they still don’t have a proper sniper, but privately, Phil would rather have the Hulk take down one more alien on his own than have Clint out there in the absolute carnage. Plus, he can handle Clint’s friendship with Steve, his friendly rapport with Bruce and Thor, and, naturally, his closeness to Natasha, but Phil has a deep-seated fear of what would happen if Clint and Stark spent any substantial amount of time together.

“But you were, and from what Fury said, you kind of saved the day.” Clint’s hands are on Phil’s forearms now. He’s always liked Phil’s forearms, though Phil firmly believes they’ll never measure up to Clint’s.

“Stark saved the day,” Phil corrects Clint. “I just derailed the bad guy for a bit. Then Fury ruined my Captain America cards.”

“Yeah, that was a dick move, but I see what he was getting at.”

“Are you going to be alright?” Phil asks. He pulls his arms out of Clint’s grasp so he can hold both Clint’s hands. “You seem less shaky than you were when I came in.”

“You die, and then you ask _me_ if I’m going to be alright,” says Clint, shaking his head. “You will never stop being unreal.”

“Speaking of unreal, it’s blowing my mind that you haven’t suggested ‘Yay, Phil’s still alive’ sex yet,” Phil says.

“I’ve had my hands all over you for an hour,” says Clint. “Feeling deprived?”

Rather than answering—or, he supposes, in reply—Phil kisses him, and this time it is sweet and soft, but he lingers long enough for Clint to know the next step. And naturally, Clint does, breaking off just long enough to pull his shirt over his head and begin undoing the buttons on Phil’s shirt.

“I love you,” Clint says into Phil’s neck. “Love you so much. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Me neither, but about you.”

Clint laughs. “Always so eloquent.”

Phil pushes him down onto the bed and carefully arranges himself over Clint. “It’s what you married me for, I know,” he says, ducking his head toward Clint’s neck and going to work on a mark he’s not going to be able to cover up without concealer.

Clint groans. “That and this.”

“How much of this are you looking for?” Phil asks, and he knows he sounds out of breath, but he doesn’t care.

“As much as you want to give,” says Clint, and Phil has a pretty good idea what to do with that.

In the aftermath, Clint still holds him, shaking his head when Phil says they should brush their teeth if they’re staying in bed, shaking it again when Phil points out that Clint probably hasn’t eaten since lunchtime and it’s 9:30 now.

“OK, I’m not going to relent on that one,” says Phil. “Do you want sushi? I’ll get you sushi.”

Clint pulls far enough back from Phil to look at him incredulously. “You hate sushi.”

“Yeah, but I love you.”

“That’s fair. Won’t you be hungry?”

“I’ll get some udon. I’ll survive.”

“You’ve survived worse,” says Clint, and it sounds like he’s trying to joke, but his eyes are shining suspiciously in a way Phil hasn’t seen since their wedding almost a year ago. It hadn’t been a lavish affair, just Phil and Clint and Nat and Alexi and Phil’s family getting together at a Unitarian church upstate. They danced to the Beatles’ “I Will” and Phil’s mother cried and his sisters’ husband paid the DJ to play a Raffi song. (Clint looked at Phil, confused, as Raffi began singing about who built the ark. Phil shook his head, looked at his nieces spinning around in circles on the dance floor, and said, “It’s kind of a long story.”) If it wasn’t the best day Phil ever had, it was pretty high on the list. And judging from the look on Clint’s face when they took one last turn around the dance floor to that awful Jason Mraz song Phil refused to admit he loved, Phil guessed he’d had a pretty good time, too.

“I mean, remember the ride from the reception to the airport?” Clint asks, and Phil isn’t surprised that Clint was thinking of the wedding, too. “James drives scarier than I do.”

Phil nods. “I’m glad Val found someone that even my dad grudgingly approves of,” he says. “But I wish he didn’t literally laugh out loud when he sees speed limit signs.”

“You never told me the story about the kids’ song he had the DJ play at the wedding.”

“Oh, it’s not actually a long story, I just didn’t want James to have the satisfaction of hearing me tell it that day,” says Phil. “It’s just ... OK, he knows I hate Raffi. That’s who did the song the DJ had on hand, for whatever reason. He knows that from me watching the kids once and complaining about their MP3 collection.”

“That doesn’t seem like enough of a reason,” Clint says.

“Right, well, that’s not it. I may or may not have bribed their wedding DJ to play George Michael’s ‘Careless Whisper’ at three different points during their reception.”

Clint laughs so hard the bed shakes slightly. “You’re amazing.”

“I try.” Phil takes his phone off his nightstand. “What do you order when you order sushi?”

Clint sighs theatrically and pulls Phil’s phone away from him. “You’ll never get it right on your own.”

“Yes, like so many things,” says Phil, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound sincere, but it does. Clint smiles and kisses him on the cheek before dialing a number he seems to know from memory. (“What?” he asks defensively when Phil raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re not always here for lunch!”) Half an hour later, they’re on the couch, food balanced on their laps rather than plates, wearing each other’s pajamas and watching _The Real Housewives of New Jersey_. Among the Housewives, the Jersey girls are Phil’s favorite, and the fact that he has a favorite is a carefully guarded secret.

“So, what do we do now that you’ve saved the world?” Clint asks an hour or two later, when he’s tired enough that his head’s in Phil’s lap and his hand is simply resting on Trista’s back rather than petting it. “And don’t say it was Stark. It was you, too.”

“I’m not sure,” Phil says as he runs his fingers through Clint’s hair, always so soft, so far off from receding. “Probably the same thing we were doing before.”

“You teach classes, I show kids how to hold a bow, our friends sing drunk karaoke and we laugh at them, and we go on with the whole ‘married and in love and really, really smug about it’ thing?”

“Damn straight,” says Phil. “Can we watch the show now?”

“So sassy.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No,” Clint agrees. “I wouldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you for reading this. It was really fun to write, and the comments section has been so delightfully lively.
> 
> Just a couple endnotes... First, MCU Clint makes sense as an Avenger. This Clint really doesn't, at least not to me. Thus, he's hanging out with Trista when Phil gets stabbed by that mischievous bastard.
> 
> Second, man, do I want to write more about this wedding. Watch out for that. MAYBE.
> 
> Thanks again! You're great!


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